


Mercurial

by kylosbrickhousebody



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Kylo Ren, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Choking, Come Eating, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dom!Kylo, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Kylo Ren, Don't Like Don't Read, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Facials, Filthy, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, Force Choking, Forced Orgasm, Gratuitous Smut, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kylo Ren Angst, Kylo Ren Backstory, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, My First Smut, Naked Female Clothed Male, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Possessive Kylo Ren, Praise Kink, Protective Kylo Ren, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Submissive Character, Top Kylo Ren, Unhappy Ending, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, will add more tags later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-03-03 23:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 56,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13352211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylosbrickhousebody/pseuds/kylosbrickhousebody
Summary: Ben Solo grew up dreaming about a girl, though he could never quite remember finer details when he woke up. Even when he turned to the dark side and became Kylo Ren, this awareness of her--visions, he considered them--continued to come to him in dreams. They felt so familiar, as if teasing at an inner truth he'd once known.Reader had a hard life, learning from an early age that she had to fend for herself. While foraging for food and encampment supplies, she's caught by mysterious soldiers and brought before an even more mysterious masked man. A tense familiarity flows between them; have they met before?Reader's taken captive by Kylo Ren and held against her will as property of the First Order. Kylo has many secrets; does the Reader, too?





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not written to glorify the non-con elements within it, nor the fact that these events are happening to a teenage Reader, who I originally wrote as 16 (I have since changed it to 18 because it was upsetting people and detracting from the core themes in the fic). 
> 
> A lot of non-con writers on this platform, and others, write as a response to non-con and assault faced in their own lives. I am no exception. Some of the events (especially earlier in the story) are based in part on real events that happened to me when I was 16 and far from home in a foreign country -- much like the Reader character here is.
> 
> Non-con writers, like any writers, express their feelings and emotions differently through their work. Victims of sexual assault are as varied as any other group of people. This fic represents in many ways unresolved feelings I have towards my own experiences, which cannot be as easily dismissed or condemned as you may think. I've done my best to appropriately tag and additionally warn readers that this work may be upsetting, especially because the Reader character is, yes, a victim of sexual assault -- yet still has a complex sexual identity which she does not yet know how to express or cope with. This is an element that I identify with deeply. It seems that this has been misunderstood, perhaps because of my lack of skill as a writer. Or maybe just because everybody fundamentally interprets things -- especially emotional things -- differently. The latter element--how she's been a victim yet still has a strong sexual identity of her own -- may also be hard to relate to, or otherwise controversial, for some readers. I would caution you to stay away from this fic if that is the case for you.
> 
> Reader's past abuse/trauma includes forced prostitution/etc which will not be graphically described, but will be referenced. The fic contains other potentially triggering content (see tags); I generally recommend not reading if you're easily triggered by violence/sex-related elements, including non-con elements, dom/sub, or lighter bdsm/themes (I have no plans for hardcore punishment/blood play/etc).
> 
> To the 'inspirations' end: I'm absolutely not implying any of the following authors endorse this work or have any involvement with it (they don't). But, simply as far as reading I did beforehand and narratives I personally appreciated: Three Blind Tooke by ElmiDol, Teach Me To Be Yours / Reteach Me by Jay2Noir, Thesmophoria by d00biusc0nsent, lots of works by bestwithalisp, lots of works by kassanovella, lots of works by Faestae, Ms. Figg on FF, The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, The Crimson Petal and the White by Michael Faber, literally the entire Masters of the Shadowlands series by Cherise Sinclair (which is what safe/sane/consensual kink looks like!), Sweeney Todd (Sondheim/Burton movie edition), et al to be credited as I remember them.
> 
> Fic is mostly written from the Reader's perspective, with a few omnipotent-narrator moments that shed some light on Kylo's.
> 
> For related moodboards, see: https://www.pinterest.com/Kylosbrickhousebody/
> 
> For related Reylo/Kylo playlists, see: https://open.spotify.com/user/2lsivtn9heztapydvsgoky2x6?si=g2ndlw4vTUCQFqnK4iQtlA  
> or  
> spotify:user:2lsivtn9heztapydvsgoky2x6
> 
> Tumblr: https://kylosbrickhousebody.tumblr.com/

You were halfway up the tree when you heard it: a low, humming noise. You paused, gingerly setting a foot along the branch as you craned your neck to identify the source of the sound. It reminded you of one of the busy machines lining the streets of Tavuu, but you were far from there now. Tavuu was built high above the jungle on a plateau; taking the long and winding road up to the city was something you avoided whenever possible. Instead, you spent most of your days foraging in the Zoess jungle. You didn’t have money—you had never had money—so you preferred to fend for yourself and forage here, alone. People were awful; your own parents had sold you into slavery in the Eastern district, where criminals ran rampant and controlled the streets. You were so young, you couldn’t remember. Your first memories were of the factory, where your little fingers worked to produce many nuts, bolts, knives, and other metal goods and weapons. When children didn’t perform fast enough or meet their quota—or if the overseer simply wanted amusement—then were beaten, traded, or sold. That’s what had happened to you; you were told into the sex trade as a young teenager, forced to service perverted men. You worked up the courage to escape after a year. All the slaves had been threatened with death should you attempt to escape: to you it sounded like a sweet promise. But you hadn’t been caught—you’d escaped into the jungle.

To avoid being re-captured, you stayed in the jungle for a long time at first. You gave yourself a crash course in foraging and making shelters; once you had gotten so sick from a poisonous berry that you were convinced you were going to die. You were almost disappointed when you didn’t. Over time, you learned the good foods from the bad, which kinds of wood to strip away from the trees to make the most resistant shelters, and memorized the rock formations under which you currently slept at night. When you were convinced no one would remember you, you began foraging for profit, harvesting walla nuts, adder moss, and various native fruits and vegetables. You sold them in Western Taavu when you needed money for city goods; your harvests never turned much of a profit, but your small credit earnings were enough to buy string and other goods that helped you survive alone. You were destitute, and the city was uncaring; when you were injured or caught fevers from the slimes of the jungle, you sold yourself to men on the streets, as it was the only work that would yield enough credits for medicine and wrappings.

Tensing up, you looked around for the source of the noise. You saw nothing. You began to climb up the tree again, the rough patches digging into your skin. You were sure your hands were bleeding, but you were used to the sores that opened from foraging—you would rub groundnut oil on them later. For now, you needed to focus on reaching the top, so you could cut down the fruits that rested on top. Grabbing the bag you’d woven from thick marsh grass, you hurried up the tree. You hung on with one arm, your legs wrapped around the circumference as you reached up with a short knife, severing the stalks from the fruit dropping them into your waiting bag. When you were done, you tied the bag shut with its drawstring, and looped it over your shoulders to rest on your back. Sighing heavily, you looked down; it was a long way to lower yourself, now weighted down by the heavy fruits of your back. You started quickly scrambling down the tree—if you made good time, you could still have time to harvest some nuts and berries along the path home. You leapt from the tree when you were low enough, gathering up your pile of supplies at your feet and shoving them, too, in your bag. In the distance, you heard the faint sound of shouting; probably just a jungle thief scuffle, you thought.

* * *

The man walked down the ramp of the command shuttle, eyes scanning in front of him as he came to a halt.

“Sir, we have located the crystals.”

“Good,” his vocoded voice responded. “Pull your troops out once they have secured the crystals. Search the area for encampments; bring the women to me. No other prisoners.”

“Right away, sir.”

He stood tall in front of his command shuttle, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The troops he commanded were on a strategic mission to strip the planet of its natural resources, of which there were few. Only the crystals that grew within the nearby rock face were of any value; everything else was garbage, which complemented the garbage people who lived here. _What a worthless planet_. He heard blaster shots in the distance, his stormtroopers killing the jungle scum standing in the way of the First Order. This is how it was; the strong preyed on the weak. He was restoring order to the galaxy.

* * *

You walked the path back to the place you called home. The pads of your feet thrummed against the jungle floor, thick and calloused from years of foraging. You stopped to pick berries along the way; your stomach had been growling its need for food. Just as you went to pop another in your mouth, you froze; you could have _sworn_ you heard someone speaking Galactic Standard in the distance. That was rare for Radhii, let alone for jungle foragers. Your brows furrowed as you continued towards home, convincing yourself you were just hearing things.

But then you heard it again; this time clearer as you drew nearer to home. There were multiple voices, gruff and short. They seemed to be shouting tactical information to each other. You paused, heart thudding in your chest. Walking slowly in the direction of the rock face you lodged under, your eyes flicking to the source of every sound around you. Stooping behind a boulder that signaled you had made it home, you paused to control your breathing. Then you heard them again.

“Someone’s been sleeping here.”

“I cleared the North flank.”

“Ok. Checking West.”

The voices were closer than before— _much_ closer than before. _Shit_. You grabbed onto the rock, anchoring yourself as you slowly peered above it.

You could make out two figures. Straining to get a better look, they slowly came into focus: you realized they were wearing full body armor. You stepped back on instinct, and a twig cracked. _SHIT_.

“Hey!” The one was pointing to you, signaling the other. “There!”

Your eyes went wide, and for a nanosecond you could hear nothing but your own terrified breathing and thumping heart. You pivoted on one foot and took off running as fast as you could manage. Your arms swung out at your sides, forcing you forwards, your feet pounding the ground. Loud footsteps behind you indicated they were gaining on you.

“Don’t shoot her!” one yelled. “Ren wants the women alive!”

 _Ren_? You didn’t stop to ask or even wonder a moment longer, focusing only on slicing through the air. Air streamed past you, blowing back your hair, filling your burning lungs. The adrenaline kick almost made you feel wild and free. And then, just as quickly, you weren’t: another armored figure leapt at you from behind a wide tree, grabbing hold of your waist. You screamed at the top of your lungs, thrashing wildly in the creature’s arms, putting up a decent fight until the other two fully caught up. Your wrists were grasped hard and held together in front of you, then gruffly handcuffed together

“Walk, you scum!” they spat, turning on their heels and forcing you forward. You stumbled, seemingly tripping over your own feet. You hit the ground with a thud, and one of the figures kicked you. Hard. Doubling over in pain, you heard their voices swimming around you as you clutched your stomach.

“…drag you then” was all you caught as one hooked an armored hand between your cuffs and began to drag you along the jungle floor. You cursed them, flailing your legs in every which direction until they smartly decided to walk just out of your range. Rocks were cutting into your legs, dirt filling the cuts as you were dragged along. Your shoulders were threatening to pop out. The strain on your wrists made them soon go numb, and you choked back sounds of pain and defeat. You would ask for no mercy; you would not give them the pleasure. The sights of the jungle passed by as your vision swam, unclear from the intense pain. You vaguely noticed a familiar cluster of trees, where you’d built a hammock one summer. The happy memory bolstered your spirits for a moment—until you noticed you were slowing down. There were more voices. _Many_ more voices. You came to stop in a clearing, and you twisted your body to see why.

Before you stood more of the armored creatures, some standing together in packs, some talking to men in tailored black uniforms. And some, you noticed as bile rose in your throat, were standing behind kneeling women, blasters trained on their heads.

“Another.”

You were dragged up and turned around, then similarly forced to your knees along the line of women. Your heart pounded in your chest, eyes flicking down the line of your fellow… prisoners? Hostages? Whatever you were, it wasn’t good for you. These were women you’d never seen before; they were similarly outfitted, most of them—foragers. A few wore nicer clothes rather than the rags you’d fashioned for yourself: criminals from Tavuu. Zoess was a common hideout for them. Just as you started counting the women along the line with you, another was shoved down to your left.

“That’s the last of them, sir. We’ve surveyed the whole area. It’s been secured. The objective was captured.”

You searched for the man he was addressing. _There_. You hadn’t noticed him in the sea of white armor, too busy looking up and down the line you were now a part of.

“Good.” The man said. His voice was unnatural; he was speaking through a filter, you realized. It warped his voice, pitching it deeper, adding static. You forced yourself to swallow as the figure took a step forward, the visor of his helmet tilted to look at the first kneeling girl on the line. He was tall and imposing, outfitted in sort of ceremonial-looking combat garb: something you would’ve seen on an Imperial warrior before the Empire fell. He wore black military-style boots, black pants obscured by a quilted black tunic and flowing robes extending from a cowl. Slowly he walked towards you, considering each kneeling prisoner for a moment. None of the women dared to look up at him; every one of them bore the same terrified expression you imagined you wore. Your heart felt heavy in your chest as his boots walked past the girl three people down from you, two people down to you, next to you… with a heavy step, he had moved in front of you. You bit the inside of your cheek, and against the advice of the screaming voice in your head, looked up at him.

Not that there was much to look up at. His helmet was all black except for a silver grill surrounding the area where eyes would’ve been. You saw a thin black mesh material there, which he must have been able to see out of somehow…

“Looking at something, forager scum?” His voice was low with a dangerous edge that made your stomach twist.

You said it before you could stop yourself. “You’ve got something on your face.”

You heard gasps: you were pretty sure one of them was from you. The voice of reason in your head was screaming at you, as was the figure standing behind you. One armored hand took hold of the back of your head and shoved it down harshly.

The looming man in front of you chuckled. “You know I’ve killed for less?”

 _Fuck it_. You weren’t making it out of this alive anyways.

“Do it then.” You looked back up boldly. “Do it.”

Underneath the helmet, the man smirked. He looked down on the insolent girl like a god, towering over her. Her defiant hazel eyes were boring holes where she knew his would be. Meanwhile he ran his over her body—others on the line possessed better. He stared at the dirt covering her, how it made her hair look darker than it was. _Fucking filthy_. But there was something about her. The thing that he had been looking for; something familiar. He couldn’t quite place it.

He moved his head to briefly glance at the girl on your left—the last in the line—then back at you. “Show you mercy? No.” He paused. “This one” he said suddenly, and you were jerked to your feet and pushed towards him. He grabbed you, flipping you around so your back was pulled against his chest. Large, strong hands closed around your upper arms. “Kill the rest.”

Your mouth opened in a silent scream as the armored men shot the other women on the spot with their blasters. Your knees buckled under you. His fingers dug into you tighter, holding you up, making you watch. Then he flipped you back around and waved one hand in front of your face. Everything went black. The man dipped a knee and threw your unconscious body over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, sorry; breaking up my writing more based on where it makes sense to take a break than based on consistent word-counts-per-chapter. Expect inconsistency.
> 
> tw here for implied and referenced past abuse/sex work.

 You awoke to the feel cool metal touching against your back, your wrists, your ankles, and in a thick band around your waist. As you came to, you realized you were strapped to a table, legs spread open. Your head lulled to the side, and your eyes trailed up a tall body: him.

“You,” you slurred, still drowsy.

He said nothing, though his visor moved from where it had been looking—down at your open legs—to your face. Your lips parted, but you said nothing. You felt prodding at your core; something cold was being forced inside your cunt. Someone new stepped in front of the man as you grit your teeth against the intrusion.

“Open your mouth.”

You were confused and dizzy, your eyelids heavy. You felt too weak to fully open; you parted your lips a little wider, and the person swabbed the inside of your cheek. Then they stepped aside, and you found yourself faced with him again. He lifted a hand as his visor met your feeble glare, and you felt as though something was brushing against your brain.

Suddenly you were young again, crying and screaming as you were led into the factory building to be raised for work; then you were glancing at your fingers, sore and bleeding after a long day on the production line; another flash and you were watching one of the perverts unzipping his pants in front of you; another was groaning on top of you; selling yourself on the street for money to treat a wound. Suddenly the memories were gone, and you gasped for air.

“You’re a little whore.” His voice was impassive. Cold. It seeped into your being and made you shiver.

He took a step forward, and suddenly his helmet was staring down at you. A gloved hand covered your mouth and squished your cheeks together; he slipped two fingers in your mouth, his thumb hooking under your jaw.

“Suck,” he commanded, and his fingers began rubbing along your tongue. You were too dazed to argue. And so you sucked on his fingers while the man between your legs prodded your pussy.

* * *

He gazed down at her from behind his helmet. She looked so lost, so afraid. It was easy to take what he wanted from her in this state, and so as the examination was done, he had slipped his fingers into her mouth. He was stroking along her tongue as she sucked them compliantly. His cock twitched in his pants at the sight. He had half a mind to ignore his staff and shove his cock in her mouth now, but she seemed too out of it to make it enjoyable.

He pondered down at her as he played with her tongue. She looked young, but her memories showed so many encounters with men. She’d prostituted herself. She was a whore. He wondered how old she was, though he didn’t remove his fingers from her mouth to ask. _Later_. He was considering taking the glove off so he could feel her too when the doctor between her legs stood.

“Everything looks fine.”

He nodded and looked back down at the girl. She was still looking up at him. He almost felt sorry for her; he almost wanted to say something to comfort her. But he didn’t; he only continued to fill her mouth. It distracted her as the doctor re-entered with a large needle, angling it at her upper left arm. The doctor plunged it in suddenly, and she yelped, eyes going wide. In her panic, she bit down on his fingers. He could hardly blame her. His fingers had been protected by the thick gloves, but he pulled them out and slapped her face anyway—he couldn’t have her thinking she could bite him. She blinked. Tears were welling in her eyes.

“48 hours, sir.”

Another nod.

* * *

You closed your eyes as you lay helpless on the metal table. You squeezed them together, feeling hot tears run down the sides of your face. You wouldn’t let him see you cry, so you choked the rest back.

“That’s all, sir. The rests are running. They’ll be done before the device is ready.”

The cloaked man nodded and the gaze of his visor left you. “Take her,” he commanded to people you couldn’t see. You felt your restraints come undone—you weren’t sure how—and your arms were roughly seized by the armored men before trying to escape had even crossed your mind. “Cover her until you get there. Naked in the cell. Two gallons of water. No food. No visitors. Don’t talk to her.” He listed his orders behind you as you were pulled to your feet, a pathetic sheet wrapped around you. You swayed as your hands were cuffed again. Then they forced you to walk forward—walk, walk, walk. Your bare feet pattered over the cold metal floors, which you had glued your eyes to. Every panel you crossed was the same, and soon your mind seemed to go on autopilot. Before you could protest, the sheet was ripped from you, and you were pushed into a dim room. The armored men set down two gallons of water before shutting the heavy metal door.

You were alone and afraid. Naked and cold. Parched and hungry. You looked around the room desperately, still waking up from whatever had happened to you. There was a small cot with thin blanket on it, no pillow. The only other thing in the cold room was a toilet. You rushed over and sat, cold metal stinging your upper thighs as you peed. Embarrassment flushed over you, and suddenly you were grateful to be alone in the cell. You hurried over to the cot and under the blanket, as thin and scratchy as it was. The cold nipped at you, and with little else to do but wait for your fate, you fell asleep.

You weren’t sure how long you slept, as there was nothing in the room to indicate any time. You stood and drank some water, the coolness calming the fire in your throat from your earlier screaming. You paused before taking another sip; he seemed so insistent on giving you plenty of water, but had ordered no food. _He wants you weak, but alive_. The thought made you sick, though you knew it to be true. You swayed on your feet as you took one last sip. Then you hurried back to your cot, where you curled up until sleep came for you again.

This cycle continued for what felt like forever. Drinking the water, curling into a ball under the blanket, scurrying to the toilet and back. There was nothing else to pass the time. Your stomach growled more viciously at you every time you woke up; you had no energy to do exercises to pass the time, so you simply slept. Soon the two gallons were gone, and you were left without water. You thought surely you were close to death when the heavy metal door opened. The men with the white armor pulled you up, wrapped the same thin sheet around you, and marched you out the door.

First you were taken for a shower, forced to clean yourself in front of the men. Then you were dragged through the halls the same as last time; you kept your eyes glued to the floor, too afraid of what you might see if you looked up. You knew there was no hope of escape, anyway. He had brought you here to die. He was going to kill you. That’s where you were going now: to your death. You had closed your eyes, too exhausted to even cry, when you came to a stop. The sheet was stripped away, and you were pushed through a door, which immediately slid shut behind you.

Your captor turned to face you.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one; most future chapters should be longer as events become more dialogue-based, etc.

The room was silent. To your left was a living area with a couch and coffee table; ahead there was a dining table with a few chairs and a small kitchen. To your right, a large bed with fitted black sheets, surrounded by two nightstands on either side—there was a closet to the side of the bed, mirrors on its doors, and a doorway: you guessed this led to a refresher. More than anything, you were grateful that the room was warm.

The man considered you as you glanced around. You looked back to him, his visor still trained on you.

“Come here, little whore.” He stood at the foot of the bed, fully clothed but for his cowl. You forced yourself to swallow, hard, and remained where you were.

“Come. Here.” His tone was clear even through the vocoder—the kind of tone that made it clear he would not be issuing commands twice. Your head spun, and you walked towards him slowly. Silence fell again for a moment. You swayed in front of him.

“I’m hungry,” you whispered. It shocked you how strangled your voice sounded—quiet and weak, just barely audible.

He almost felt bad for her again. He would let her eat soon, he told himself.

“Lay down on the bed.” The mechanical voice showed no hint of compassion for you, no indication that he even heard you. But you were sure he had.

You obeyed, laying down on your back. His gloved hands found the front of his pants and he pulled down his zipper. You stared up at the ceiling blankly as you heard the rustling of clothes in front of you. You felt his gloved hands take hold of your knees and spread them apart; he climbed between them, pushing you up on the bed a little. You were half glad to be in a warm bed in a warm room with another being; surely this made you just as sick as he was. He shifted again, and you felt something smooth and warm slap against your thigh. He had pulled out his cock.

“Get me hard,” he ordered. Same mechanical voice; it looked like he didn’t intend to take his helmet or clothes off.

You had no energy to fight, so you tilted your neck to look between your legs. His cock was half-erect and large. He was uncircumcised. You sighed; you had done this before, zoned out with a man. You could do it again. You were met with a moan when you wrapped your hand around his cock—a noise that sounded very strange through a vocoder. You pumped his shaft a few times then set to work playing with his foreskin, pulling it down from the head of his cock, pushing it back up—down, up, down, up. He groaned and bucked up into your hand.

“Line me up with you.”

There was no touching you; this wasn’t about your pleasure, only his. You forced yourself to swallow as you lined his cock up with your dry entrance. He gave a slight thrust to part your inner lips only, stretching out over your body. Suddenly the helmet was above you, staring down at you, his cock at the entrance of your cunt. Time seemed to stand still for you; you heard only the sound of your own breathing. Without warning he pressed his hips up into yours; a hissing sound came from his helmet as he sank into you.

He closed his eyes behind his helmet, savoring the feeling of burying himself slowly in her hot tightness.

“Fuck,” his voice growled. “You’re a tight little whore.”

You whimpered under him, the friction that delighted him creating a radiating pain for you. He pressed hard into you until he had buried himself fully. He all but pulled out before doing it again, sinking back in slowly. He was met with less resistance this time, your body responding even as he raped you. You felt yourself growing wet as he pulled out and thrust back in, then again and again. He was moaning and panting above you, no longer holding himself up. His chest pressed against yours, his gloved hands grasping your shoulders to pull your cunt down onto his cock to meet his thrusts.

You stared up at the ceiling as he filled you—you were finally warm for the first time in days. You closed your eyes, trying to at least savor the softness of the bed and the quality of the sheets rubbing against your body.

“Look at me, you filthy little whore.”

You glued your eyes to his visor, trying to zone out again, but a gloved hand reached up and wrapped around your neck. Panic shot through you as he squeezed, cutting off your air supply, thumb pressing into your vein. Your head pounded, cunt squeezing around him in terror. You felt him pounding you hard as the world swam before your eyes, static starting to fill your vision.

And then his hand was gone—and so was he. He pulled out of you with a pop, crawling up the length of your body and straddling your waist. He ripped his gloves off, throwing them down beside him. He took hold of his cock with his right hand, his left groping your breasts.

“You’re hungry?” the voice panted. “Open your mouth.”

Tears formed in your eyes. You opened your mouth obediently, and he started jerking his wrist, working himself hard. You could tell that behind his helmet he was staring at your mouth, which you knew he was about to cum in. The noises he made grew lewder as he approached his orgasm, the wet sounds of him masturbating filling the room. Suddenly he grabbed his cock and shoved his hips forward, pushing himself in your mouth.

“Swallow. Me!” he practically yelled as his seed spilled into your mouth. You laved his shaft with your tongue as he filled your mouth. He pulled out, hovering above you and squeezing the last drops from his foreskin, letting them drip into your mouth. You held it there, not swallowing yet; you knew he wanted to see you with a mouth full of his cum. He was breathily heavily, staring down at you.

“Swallow,” he ordered. You swallowed, his load sliding down your throat and into your empty stomach. You opened your mouth again to prove it to him.

He grunted his approval and pushed himself up, tucking his cock back into his pants. After a moment, he stood; now he had to think about what to do. She had been good for him, following his orders and being submissive—sticking her tongue out to stimulate the underside of his cock while he came, showing him her mouth full of cum and opening again after swallowing. She knew what she was doing; she'd performed perfectly. He had to show her he would reward good behavior the same as he would punish bad.


	4. 4

He zipped his pants up. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked her. She sat up slowly on shaky arms; her desperate eyes drifted up to him.

“Please,” she breathed. Her voice was so soft and faint. He felt a pang of guilt.

He walked over to the nightstand nearest her and picked up his datapad. He entered his password and scanned his fingerprint for access, then began ordering her food.

“Is there anything you don’t like?”

“Anything is fine,” she murmured. She was acting nothing like the little spitfire she had been three days ago—but she had something in her stomach then. Maybe she would soon go back to being trouble. For her sake, he hoped not.

He finished ordering her food, and added an order for himself. He set the datapad down; she had laid back down, eyes closed.  

“I didn’t say you could go to sleep.” The cold voice from the helmet cut across you.

You opened your eyes. He appeared to have finished doing whatever he had been doing. Something that meant he was going to feed you, you hoped. Everything here was so fancy—it was clear he had wealth. You had never really had credits to your name, but electronics like that weren’t cheap, even you knew that. Your head swam; every second you spent here was another second in which the huge gap between you seemed to grow. Deep within you, your stomach flipped, uneasy.

He sat on the bed next to you. He didn’t tell you to sit up so you didn’t waste the energy—of which you already had very little. Your eyes drifted over him, and you noticed his hands were still bare. His skin was unwrinkled and smooth—he had to be young. You forced yourself to swallow the bile that rose in your throat; he was young and had already found this much power—had already developed a taste for violence and cruelty. It surprised you. You had expected him to be older.

He sensed her thoughts, her gaze on his hands. He rubbed them absentmindedly.

“How old are you?” he asked flatly.

“18.”

 _Fuck_. _Shit_. It was two years older than the Galactic age of consent—not that he really cared—but he had _not_ meant to go that young. He looked back at her, at the naked girl he had just pounded hard and made to swallow his cum—just that, a _girl_. His mind raced over the memories he had seen in her mind. She must have been even younger. He felt a twinge of pity for her before shoving the emotion out of his heart.

“Am I allowed to speak to you?” she asked.

He considered her; she seemed to be on her best behavior for him.

“For now.”

“May I ask you a question?”

He paused, scowling behind his helmet. He already knew what it was.

“Yes.”

“How old are _you_?”

He paused. “29.”

There was a soft gasp—he had been expecting one.

“Take your helmet off,” she blurted out.

He sighed to himself; she had been doing so well. He didn’t truly fault her—he could tell she was just curious, only unintentionally disrespectful. But he had to show her discipline regardless.

“I don’t take orders from you, whore.”

She blanched. But then she spoke again.

“ _Please_ take your helmet off, _sir_.” She put a lot of emphasis on the last word. He smirked behind his visor: he had to hand it to her, it was a good save. He couldn’t be mad: rephrasing as a request, adding an honorific—it made it almost acceptable.

You watched his hands go up to either side of his helmet, where his thumbs hit the latch on either side. You forced yourself to breathe as he pulled it off; you saw black hair emerge from underneath, falling a bit past his collar. He shifted on the bed to face towards you. You propped yourself up on one arm against your body’s protests. He didn’t look anything like the man you had imagined ordering the death of the women in the jungle, raping you. His skin was smooth: only two faint lines on his forehead. He had strong features, full lips, and a few small birthmarks. If you had met another way, you would have thought he was attractive. Handsome, even. It disgusted you.

His eyes caught yours, and you choked a little. They were dark and deep and beautiful, and for the first time you could see him watching you. It felt intimate—wrong.

You weren’t sure if you were more or less afraid of him than before.

A knock at the door saved you.

“Food,” he said, standing. “Go sit over there,” he commanded, gesturing to the dining area.

You were _not_ about to be denied food, so you used the last of your strength to push yourself up and walk feebly over to the table, collapsing in a chair. You heard him saying a few words to whoever was outside while a droid rolled up to you, carrying a plate of food and a glass of water. You took it and gingerly set it down on the table. You looked down; a large portion of salmon, rice, some fancy-looking fruit you didn’t know the name of, unfamiliar looking vegetables, a potato dish. It seemed generous of him—you were sure he thought so. You sat in silence and waited for him; you hardly thought he would approve of you eating without him. Maybe not even without direct permission. Your eyes fluttered shut, hands clutching at your stomach as you tried to wait patiently.

You heard movement a moment later, the door sliding shut. You whipped your eyes open, remembering what he had snapped about permission to sleep. He carried his own plate to the table, a glass of wine in his other hand, dark eyes wandering over you as he sat down across from you. Your eyes flicked to his plate, and you noticed it contained the same food as yours; he was feeding you a meal he liked.

“Thank you,” you said as soon as he’d sat down, looking from him to the food and back. “It’s very generous of you.”

You swore you could have detected a small smile playing at his lips, but if there was one, he held it back. He simply nodded.

* * *

He regarded the girl from his seat at the table as he began eating. He glanced up at her, food in his mouth; she seemed to be waiting for something. He reached into her mind as he chewed and swallowed. _Oh_. She didn’t know if she needed to wait for explicit permission to eat. 

 “You may eat now.”

Eat she did, seemingly careful not to go too fast, either. He let her enjoy a few bites before he spoke.

“Where did you learn...?" He paused, unsure how to phrase his question. "You were trained...”

Some blood drained from her face. “Clients,” she answered evasively. He decided not to press her more, nor discipline her for such a vague answer; not about something like this.

Silence fell for a few moments, and he continued eating.

“Is... is that what you like?”

He looked up. He was surprised his mouth hadn’t fallen open. “What?”

“Do you like that?” she repeated; she gave him a wary look, surely trying to size him up. She would have done that, wouldn't she, as a prostitute--aim to please?

He paused, shifting uncomfortably. “Mhm.”

He monitored her face for a reaction to his acknowledgement, but none came. He sighed to himself, and penetrated her mind again. She was hoping if she cooperated that he would let her live; hoping that he wouldn’t starve her again or send her back to that cell to be cold and alone. He almost felt guilty again—maybe he had miscalculated the treatment she deserved. So far she had given him everything he wanted without real protest.

She had continued eating while he was lost in thought, surprising him when she spoke.

“What’s your name?” She seemed to sense his discomfort and disapproval immediately. “What’s your name, _sir_?”

He _almost_ wanted to call it out as cheeky, but decided against it.

“Just to be clear,” he said between bites, “You do not have my permission to call me by my name.”

“Okay,” she said simply. “What _can_ I call you?”

He thought for a moment. “Sir or Master when we’re alone. Master, Lord, or Commander as prefixes around others.” She nodded.

“My name is Kylo Ren.”

She gave him a blank look, nodding at his response.

He felt a little insulted; she showed no indication that she had ever heard his name before. It must have shown on his face.

“Oh. Yeah, I’ve heard of you,” she added quickly, a small smirk playing at the edge of her lips.

“Don’t lie to try to please me,” he snapped. He did not think it was funny; she wiped the look off her face immediately.

“Sorry.”

He sighed. This girl: she was endearing. And now he felt obligated to ask her name. She was humanizing herself to him, he realized. _Fuck_.

“Your name? And before you answer, know that I know exactly what you’re doing.”

She looked up. “What’s that?”

“Humanizing yourself. Kissing my ass by asking me about myself. Next you’ll want to know my favorite color.”

“Is it working?”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “You are _only just_ obedient enough that I won’t beat you.”

She said nothing.

He sighed again and ran his hand through his hair. “Your name?” he prompted.

 

He only nodded when you answered, still regarding you with a look of warning.

“I won’t be calling you by your name, either.”

You shrugged; you didn’t think he would. You went quiet then, staying that way for a long time—you didn’t want to upset him, you just had questions. And you _did_ want him to like you; he was in control—it was the key to survival.

“Sir,” you started slowly. He looked up, a wary expression on his face. You played coy. “You have a core worlds accent. Are you from Coruscant?”

He closed his eyes and set his jaw. “No,” he murmured. Secretly, he thought it was a good guess. “Chandrila. Question time is now over.”


	5. 5

When they finished eating, he gestured to the plates. “Clean these up, then go sit on the bed.”

Then he stood, walking out of view—to the refresher, you assumed. You cleared the plates, glasses, and utensils without protest, bringing them to the sink in the small kitchen area. You glanced around—there was no block of knives. He wasn’t stupid. You ran water from the faucet; you washed the dishes clean. Hot, soapy water spilled into the open cuts on your hands. You bit your lip, but were grateful at least that you got the chance to clean them out.

Turning the faucet off, you reached for a folded towel nearby, drying the dishes and setting them one-by-one into a drying rack by the sink. You ran the towel over the water that had spilled around the sink for good measure, then hung it over the spout to dry. You walked tentatively over to the bed, sitting down. The refresher door was open; he was standing in front of the mirror, setting aside a few bottles on the counter. It looked like he had been shaving. His eyes flicked to yours, and he began walking over. There were no heavy footsteps this time—you noticed he had kicked off his boots.

He stopped in front of you, his legs slightly spread in the stance he took. “Undress me.” It wasn’t a suggestion. You stood, eyes dropping away as your comparatively small hands played at the front of his vest. “Eyes on mine.” _Dammit_. Your eyes met his—they contained a look you couldn’t quite place. Not lust; curiosity, maybe. You unbuckled the belt he wore around his waist, letting it drop. Then you pulled the zipper of his tunic down his chest, keeping your eyes on him as he had ordered. He helped you pull his arms out of it, and he tossed it aside. Your hands grasped tentatively at the bottom of the thick shirt underneath, pulling it out from where he had tucked it into his pants, raising your arms to pull it up and off him; again, he helped, throwing it down again.

 _Don’t look at his body_. His chest was now bare—you saw broad shoulders in your periphery, your fingers fumbling at the edge of his pants. You were pretty sure your cheeks had flushed; this felt intimate—too intimate. Undressing him, holding his eyes. Something in his twinkled, as though he had heard your thoughts.

“Pull them down,” he prompted when you hesitated, amusement dancing on his features. His tone sounded almost reassuring. You blinked, forcing yourself to swallow; he had already forced his cock inside of you, you thought as you sat down to pull his pants down the length of his legs, leaning forward to collect them as he stepped out of them. You swept up the length of his body to meet his eyes. _Fuck, he’s strong_. He made a low sound in his throat.

“I didn’t say you could look at me.”

You swallowed again. You saw him tap the waistband of his boxers in your periphery. “These too,” he breathed, holding your gaze. You obeyed, tugging them down so they dropped. He stepped out of them and kicked them aside.

You forced yourself to breath as the man stood in front of you, naked and towering over you. You felt small, sitting alone on the edge of the bed. You shivered, suddenly aware of the cold in the room.

~

He had been worrying he had been too permissive with her at dinner. “We’re not friends,” he said suddenly.

“I noticed,” she spat back at him. She met his eyes with a fiery look, furious despite her complete lack of power. It was a little amazing. He slapped her face hard in response.

“Don’t talk back to me,” he hissed down at her. He knelt to her eye level, taking hold of her jaw. “Your parents, they were filthy junk traders.” She stared boldly back at him with a growing fury in her eyes. Her jaw tensed as though she was trying to set it, and he continued. “They sold you off for drinking money.” A look of disgust washed across his features, mixed with a patronizing look of fake pity. “You have no place in this story. You come from nothing. You’re nothing.”

~

He said the words softly, almost seductively. You held your levels level with his; a twinkle began to sparkle in yours. “I didn’t know you had time to _do ‘nothing’_.” Your words danced with innuendo, an attempt at verbally backhanding him. You weren’t nothing; he didn’t think you were, either—you could tell. Someone like this didn’t waste their time on _nothing_.

He pushed you back on the bed and shortly followed, throwing one leg over you and holding himself up above you. “I don’t want to hear your cheap accent anymore,” he threatened, a hand grazing over your throat. You dared him to with your eyes. But a moment later he had leaned down, pressing his lips to your neck and sucking. A small involuntary moan escaped your lips. You felt him smirk against your skin as he began placing teasing kisses down your neck.

“I thought I was nothing,” you protested. You knew it was a dangerous game to play, but you couldn’t stop the words from escaping your lips.

He moaned. “You are.”

His voice was strained; he bit your lower lip and pulled on it, sucking hard before letting go and shoving his mouth down on yours. You felt him shift above you again, his hands running over your body. They started at your hips, gripping at your curves and following them up. He forced his tongue in your mouth as you struggled beneath him.

“What’s going to break you more? When I force you to submit to me, or when you do so willingly?” His voice was low and dangerous, toying with your mind as he played with your body.

“Neither is going to happen,” you spat, imbuing every syllable with as much viciousness as you could muster.

He laughed openly, his features suddenly warm. “We’ll see,” he teased, an evil glimmer dancing in his eyes. The words were soft and gentle, and yet it was the most threatening thing you’d ever heard. Large hands grabbed your hips and flipped you around, setting you down on your hands and knees. One of them trailed up your spine, coming to rest between your shoulder blades. He forced your face down into his bed. You heard the wet sounds of him pleasuring himself for a few moments—then something came whizzing out of the refresher and into his outstretched palm. You jerked in alarm and he grabbed your shoulder gruffly, pushing you back down.

“One of the many benefits of being force-sensitive,” he purred, hands working himself behind you. The bed shifted as he re-positioned himself behind you. His hand left your back in favor of prying your thighs apart, splaying you open wider as he bent over you. Your cunt clenched tight as you waited for him to snap his hips and penetrate you, but nothing came. Instead, you felt a sudden cool pressure against your asshole—his lubed-up cock.

“No,” you gasped, scrambling to crawl up the bed as fast as possible.

“Get the fuck back here,” he growled, grabbing your hips and pulling you back. His fingertips dug into you—you knew there would be bruises tomorrow.

“No, please,” you begged, tears forming rapidly. Your voice caught in your throat. “Please don’t. I don’t want this.”

He was silent, arms wrapping around your waist to keep you in place against him. The pressure was against you again, pressing down into you.

“ _Master, please,_ ” you choked out desperately.

He sighed as if dealing with an annoying child. “It doesn’t matter what you want, little whore,” he said calmly, his tone again verging on reassurance. “The only thing that matters here is what I want.” He held you in place as you started to cry in his arms, his cock still threatening to penetrate your ass at any moment. “But I’ll rub your clit if you beg me nicely.”

He let you cry for a few more moments, and you tried desperately to catch your breath and say the words. “Please—“ you started before your voice broke. “Please, Master. Please rub my clit,” you breathed, cracked voice just barely a whisper.

“If you move away from me even an inch when I remove my hand, I swear to you I will hold you down and take what I want without giving you any pleasure.” His warning was ice, cutting across you and sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded quickly, a tear streaming down your cheek.

He removed his right hand from where it had been holding you in place against him, dropping it instead to your clit. He teased your usual entrance for a moment, wetting his fingers and dragging them up to the nub. He began rubbing in hard circles. You squirmed against him involuntarily as he teased you, temporary pleasure coursing through you. But he knew this was his window to shove himself inside with the least resistance; his body pressed down into yours, hard, and you felt his girth splitting you apart.

You cried out in objection, gasping for breath and tearing at his sheets.

“Relax,” he commanded. “It would be easier for you if you’d just relax.” His fingers rubbed your clit in firm circles, dulling the intensity of the pain you felt as he pressed into you. 

You choked on your tears as he slid his length into you, crying out in pain again.

“Shhh,” he murmured in a hushed tone. “Stop screaming.” His other hand found your throat then, his fingers spreading out across it, digits squeezing right where they needed to to silence you. He squeezed just hard enough that you could still just barely breathe, the pressure making your vision swim before you. A warm tingling sensation spread through your limbs, and you vaguely realized he was now moving behind you. The stimulation of your clit, coupled with restricting your oxygen supply, had mostly numbed you to the uncomfortable fullness of anal sex. You had relaxed around him, and his groans and grunts were now filling the air around you as he worked himself in and out of you.

“So young and already taking a grown man’s cock up your ass,” he breathed heavily into your ear. “Taking me so well, like the filthy little slut you are,” he murmured as he rubbed your clit hard, putting short, harder thrusts to you.

“I’m not,” you whispered brokenly through his grasp on your throat.

“If you’re not, then you will be,” he grunted confidently between thrusts, pounding harder behind you. “How does it feel having had all three of your holes used on your first day with me?” You swore you’d never heard more vulgar sounds coming from a man as he thrust behind you. He thrust forward a few more times before stilling and pulling out slowly. You realized he didn’t want to come—at least, not in your ass—as he shoved you down into the bed. Climbing off you, he walked into the refresher. You heard water running as you rolled over where he left you, too defeated and afraid to otherwise move. When he emerged, he walked over to you slowly and peered down. His hand found his cock, and he stroked himself as he gazed down at your sullen form on his bed. One knee pressed into the bed as he inched closer to you, his other hand fisting in your hair and dragging you towards him.

“Open and look at me.” It was an order, and it wasn’t worth fighting. He had already won. You resigned to opening your mouth as he beat his length harder over your tongue, eyes boring into yours.

“Don’t swallow yet,” was all he said as hot strips of his cum hit your tongue, tensing above you as he orgasmed. He watched himself fill your mouth, thumbing away a tear that rolled down your cheek. He squeezed the last drops into your mouth again. “Close and hold it there.”

You obeyed, glaring up at him with as many daggers as you could shove into your gaze. He simply smiled—it was almost warm, even. It disgusted you.

“How do I taste?”

You made a scoffing sound low in your throat, but the motion and the bitter-salty taste of his semen made you start gagging. You sat up quickly, turning to the side to spit it out—

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” he breathed. If he didn’t sound like he would legitimately kill you, you would have ignored him. But instead you fought it, keeping your mouth shut and trying to suppress your gagging. Your brows knit together in a silent plea as you looked up at him.

He swept you up into a bridal carry, dipping your head back so his cum pooled at the back of your throat. He pressed hard between the knuckles of your middle and ring finger, and you stopped gagging.

“Swallow,” he commanded. But you didn’t; you simply stared at him, eyes dead as you could muster. Anger flared in his. “ _Swallow,_ ” he repeated coolly. Any warmth he had had for you a moment ago was gone now.

This time you outright shook your head, and he sighed heavily. Pinching your nose, he cut off your air supply, his cum sitting heavy in your mouth. You struggled against him to sit up so you could breathe through your mouth while holding his cum there; he battled to keep you tilted back, some of his cum sliding down your throat as you grappled with each other.

“You’re not going to like what happens if you won’t fucking swallow.”

He had succeeded in getting most of it down your throat when he slapped your face hard for continuing to fight him. Tears pooled in your eyes again, and you threw caution to the wind. You forced the rest of his cum out of your mouth, letting it run down and off your chin onto his sheets.

“Did you just _spit out my cum?_ ”

He shot you what you were pretty sure was the last look you’d ever see before you died. He grasped your upper arm with impossible strength and quite literally dragged you into the refresher. Grasping your other arm, he forced you down to your knees in front of the toilet. Suddenly you felt your limbs lock up, his hands leaving you; he had immobilized you with the force. His left hand squeezed the hinge of your jaw to open your mouth, which he shoved three fingers into from his right hand. He pressed them into the back of your throat, holding them there mercilessly as you gagged on them—holding them there until you started to vomit. He repeated this several times, not bothering to hold your hair back as you emptied the contents of your stomach into the bowl. He stopped only when you spat up nothing but thin white strings of stomach acid, flushing the toilet and leaving you crumpled on the floor of the refresher.

You couldn’t be sure how long you laid there, the cold floor nipping at your bare skin. You cried weak tears, palming at your sore throat unconsciously. Then you noticed him. He was leaning against the frame of the door, watching you. He had dressed when he left you; he now wore flannel pants and a sweater that looked impossibly soft. You cursed yourself as you wished he would pick you up and hold you against him, desperate for comfort. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost as if he had heard your silent request. He walked over to you.

Silence fell again as he observed you from this new position—he was waiting for something. You swallowed the small sliver of pride you had left and pushed yourself up onto your knees, shivering in the cold air. He looked warmer than ever.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice scratchy from the toll the choking and vomiting had taken on your throat.

“What?” he prompted, voice impassive. He showed no signs of his previous anger.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated louder, choking on emotion as you finished the words. You no longer doubted his ability to break you, for here you were, kneeling before him.

You heard him sigh softly, his thumb stroking your cheek gently. “I forgive you,” he murmured, mockery in his voice, stooping to lift you up with a single arm around your waist. You wrapped yours around him and clung pathetically; he was sick and manipulative, but you were desperate even for the fake sympathy.

He held you for a few quiet moments, letting you rest your head on his shoulder, before walking out into his room and over to the blaster door. It slid aside, and he set you down in front of the trooper stationed outside.

Your eyes went wide, looking up at him pleadingly. “Don’t send me back there. Please don’t send me back there!”

But he looked past you, addressing the trooper. “Allow her water. No food. No shower.”

“Yes, Lord Ren.”

The trooper took hold of your wrists to secure handcuffs. “Don’t send me back to a cell,” you croaked, tears flowing down your cheeks again. It surprised even you how broken you sounded. “Please let me stay. _Master_. Please. I’ll be good, I promise. I promise, please.”

Kylo Ren looked down at you sadly. “There are consequences for disobedience, sweetheart.” He turned on his heel, but looked back at you.

There was a pause. “It’s red,” he said suddenly.

You stared at him blankly.

“My favorite color.”

The blaster door slid shut.


	6. 6

The trooper had draped a thin sheet around you when the blaster door shut. Maybe it was a good sign, you prayed; maybe Ren still wanted you for himself. He seemed like the jealous type—like he wouldn’t want everyone in the hallways to see you nude. Not if you were his. You breathed a small sigh of relief that you would probably remain alive at least a little longer, though that small sliver of hope did little to comfort you once you were returned to your cell. Cold as impersonal as before, loneliness quickly set in. You were still desperate for comfort; cold, hungry, and dirtier than before. Your vomit had dried in strands of your hair, and between your legs you smelled like maleness—his sweat, precum, and your juices dried on your thighs. You gagged as you sat to relieve yourself on the toilet. He had used you thoroughly; your whole body was tired from resisting him, your cunt and ass especially sore from his girth. Picking yourself up, you hobbled over to the cot and collapsed weakly on it, begging sleep to take you.

~

He paced the room, a pang of guilt reverberating through him. He did feel sorry for the girl; no one had ever taken care of her. She was capable of being submissive—wanted to be, even. He could feel it in some of the moments they shared, when she had been close. He just had to pry it out of her. Sighing, he stripped off the sweater he’d thrown on: it had worked, she wanted to be hugged close when he was done punishing her. He climbed into bed and turned out the lights with a wave of his hand. His bed smelled like sex. For tonight, it was welcome; the girl smelled crisp and sweet before he wrecked her. He groaned, stretching out on his back. He would have to feed her and let her keep it down soon; she had already gone without nutrients for three days. But he wanted her just a little more desperate for it—a little more desperate for _him_. She was already close to breaking, and when she did, he would be there to catch her. He would take care of her.

~

You weaved in and out of sleep, too weak when you woke up to do much of anything. You lay in the scratchy cot, trying to focus on anything other than the cold: anything other than your loneliness. He was doing this on purpose, you knew. It was part of breaking you. He was forcing you to seek him out, to beg him to feed you, to want his company. He wanted you to need him, and you hated that it was working. Hunger pangs rang through your stomach even worse than the last time he had starved you. Forcing you to vomit up the meal had been especially brutal; you struggled to reconcile the face burned into your mind—young and attractive—with the things he did to you with apparent ease. You could hardly believe he was only 29 and already commanded so much power, resorting with such ease to cruelty. And yet despite that, you were sure there was a gentler side: you saw hints of it in the way he would steal glances at you. He acted almost ashamed when he showed you any kind of warmth, but it had been there in a few fleeting moments. You were sure of it; you weren’t going to die in this cell. With that thought, you let another bout of heavy sleep claim you.

When you woke, you could feel his presence before you could see him. You were curled up on your right side, facing the cold wall of your cell, clutching the thin blanket you were given in your arms. And yet you could feel that he was there. Your heart drummed in your chest as you rolled over slowly, half convinced you were crazy. But you weren’t; your eyes stared into the dark robes of your captor, right where you thought they would be. You didn’t raise your gaze to stare into his mask—you barely had the will to live at all. So you did nothing as he stooped down, one large arm scooping under your knees, the other snaking under your arms. He carried you silently out of the cell, pressing you close to him. The surprising warmth of his body was welcome, but you accepted nothing else; you went limp in his arms, willing yourself to become dead weight. It didn’t seem to affect him at all—he carried you through the cold halls of the ship as if you weighed nothing, your eyes trained on the metallic ceilings your entire journey. You could feel fleeting stares from troopers and First Order personnel on your naked body as he carried you past, none lingering too long lest they attract attention from Ren. There was no sheet to cover you, now; not when you were with _him_. He held you possessively—it was abundantly clear to anyone watching that you were _his_. You wondered if anyone pitied you.

The blaster door parted for him when he arrived at his quarters, without him entering the code; you noted in passing that he must have willed it open with the force. He took a few long strides, crossing the threshold to his bed. He paused, setting you down at the end of it with a surprising gentleness. The blaster door had slammed shut behind you, its code-pad lock teasing you in your periphery. There was no way out.

You had nothing to say to him, so you sat quietly where he left you. He hadn’t moved from where he stood in front of you—you could feel his gaze glued to you, even hidden by his mask. Heavy silence hung in the air.

After a few moments, he knelt. The cool metal façade of his helmet stared into your face—you stared back, just as expressionless.

“Tell me what you need.” The level mechanical voice spoke, seemingly somehow adding to the chill in the air.

“I don’t recognize any obligation to a creature in a mask,” you said coolly. It seemed dangerous to speak to him this way, but you were too weak and cold to care.

He paused, and silence hung around you again. But then he lifted his hands to the latches on either side of his head, releasing the latches. He set it down next to you, and placed two gloved hands on your thighs.

“Tell me what you need,” he repeated. His angular face was soft as you’d remembered, and this time he looked almost kind. There was a kind of sympathy etched across his features; it seemed genuine. You flinched and looked away from him, small tears of frustration growing in your eyes. You almost wished he had kept the mask on—it was easy to despise him then. It felt indecent to look at him, let alone answer.

“Food.” Your voice broke at the end of the syllable, and you cleared your throat. “A shower. Clothes.” Your brows furrowed, and you almost shook your head at yourself—you doubted he would allow you any. “I’m cold,” you added in explanation. Shame bubbled up within you, stating your needs like this, asking him to meet them. You felt like a child.

“You are a child,” he murmured.

Your eyes flicked back to him in alarm. “Get out of my head,” you hissed, nostrils flaring. “You have no right.”

“I have _every_ right,” he corrected gently, voice soft. One gloved thumb stroked your thigh gently for a moment before he rose to his full height again. He bent slightly, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Let’s shower,” he said in the same soft tone, pulling you up with him and guiding you into the refresher.

He leaned into the shower, running water to a temperature he liked, gesturing you in. He shut the shower door behind you, and you backed into the water—hot, but not scalding. It felt perfect on your dry skin. You ran your fingers through your hair; you could see his figure undressing outside. He would be joining you in a moment. You closed your eyes as you washed your own vomit out of your hair, pretending you were alone, that you could flit away or become invisible. You heard the faint sound of the door latching shut, and you jumped; he was standing before you already. Your arms crossed in front of your chest, covering yourself in a protective stance.

A sad smile crossed his lips. “Don’t do that,” he murmured, wrapping his fingers around your wrists. Again his touch felt gentle, coaxing you into lowering your arms. You stiffened and looked away; he peered down at you.

“Are we going to have a nice shower together, or not? It’s up to you.” He bent slightly so he was at your eye level, though you were looking away. “I’m not going to do anything,” he murmured reassuringly. Your eyes met his, searching for any indication that it was a lie.

You didn’t find any. He appeared to be telling the truth; he wasn’t going to force sex here. You forced yourself to swallow, letting your shoulders relax a little.

“That’s a good girl,” he purred, reaching out and grasping a bottle from the ledge behind you. He squeezed a credit sized amount of the substance into his palm, rubbed his hands together, then reached and gently ran his fingers through your hair. You flinched, taking a small step backwards into the water.

It didn’t stop him from massaging your scalp with the tips of his fingers, nor from working shampoo into the length of your hair with his hands.

“I don’t want you washing me,” you blurted out, panicking. He stilled.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured in that same warm tone; his voice seemed to wrap around you, comforting and genuine.

“Could have fooled me,” you breathed. He almost seemed to wince at the comment. But the look faded just as quickly from his face, which still seemed to regard you with an odd tenderness.

His hands continued running through your hair, washing out the shampoo, working a conditioner in.

“I’d like it if you’d thank me for the shower,” he said suddenly, his voice containing a hint of emotion. It wasn’t anger or even so much possessiveness—he sounded almost lonely somehow. Your eyes searched his face in alarm.

“Is that an order, or a request?” He didn’t deserve the sarcasm—not this time—but you brought it anyway. It flew out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you justified it with your bitterness from the day before.

“A request,” he murmured, watching your face just as intently. You were sure it betrayed a look of surprise. You clenched your jaw, fighting the desire to look away from him. He wrapped an arm around your waist, closing the distance between you and guiding your head to rest on his chest. It felt too intimate.

You stood stiffly, pressed against him as he swept your hair onto one shoulder and rubbed your back gently. Again you forced yourself to swallow, and looked up into his eyes.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely a whisper above the water. But he heard you. A small smile played at his lips. His eyes dropped to the soap resting on the lower ledge, and as he reached for it, your mind added a word to your thanks. “— _Kylo_.”

His eyes instantly flicked to yours. _Shit_. You had no idea why your mind had thought his name, and judging by his reaction, he had heard it too. He paused for a moment, then resumed washing you.

“I don’t police thoughts as much as you may think. We don’t fully control them.” he said, now rubbing soapy circles into your back. “But I don’t want to hear that leave your pretty little mouth. Understand?”

Your cheeks felt suddenly hot. You nodded quickly.

 _Do I have no privacy?_ You knew he could hear you—what was the point of speaking? He paused again for a moment, seemingly gathering his own thoughts. You wished you could hear his, too.

“Your thoughts are loud to me, and clear. It’s harder than you think for me to filter them out. Yours, I mean.” He paused again, his hand going slack against you. “It’s part of why I chose you…” his voice trailed off when you flinched, remembering how he had ordered the death of the other women. He said nothing as you leaned against his chest again so you wouldn’t have to look at him. His hand reached up to hold the back of your head. “We have a connection,” he murmured, almost more to himself than to you.

You choked on the words, tears forming in your eyes. A hard sob wracked your body, and he pulled away from you quickly, peering down in concern. Tears spilled down your cheeks. “Why are you crying?” he asked, sounding truly surprised as he rubbed them away with his thumbs.

Words tumbled from your mouth—he was going to hear them either way, whether you kept them as thoughts or said them aloud. “I’m so confused,” you sobbed, gasping for breath as you cried harder. “You’re confusing me. You’re an amazing manipulator,” you spat bitterly. “I don’t know what to think,” you gestured blindly, tears clouding your vision. “I—I’m. I’m scared,” you whispered, bearing your soul to him. You felt stupid, which only added to your tears of frustration.

He pressed you close, letting you cry pathetically in his arms. He ran his fingers through your hair and patted your head. “Shhh,” he murmured, planting a kiss on the top of your head. “You don’t have to be confused. See, this is the thing about submitting: there’s nothing you can do wrong. None of the decisions lie with you, so there’s nothing you can do wrong.” He stroked up your arm with one hand, the other dipping under your chin to bring your eyes to his. “Give me the responsibility,” he said softly, “and you don’t have to be confused.”

“Stop,” you sputtered, one hand pushing against his chest. “Stop it. You’re fucking with my head.”

 _Is it working?_ The snarky comment you had made to him last night rang out in your mind. You gasped, glaring up at him accusingly.

“Did you just. Did you just say something _in my head?_ ”

“Maybe it was you,” he purred ambiguously.

You pushed against his chest. “Stop fucking with my head!” you screamed at him, tears streaking down your cheeks again. You backed away into the wall, but he closed the gap between you again, water reaching him for the first time. He brushed his hair out of his face as the stream cascaded down his body.

“Shhh shhh shhh,” he comforted, embracing you. “Come now, relax. Let’s finish our shower.”

“Don’t say _‘our’_ ,” you spat. “I’m not doing anything willingly.”

He smiled. “Of course you aren’t,” he patronized, as though you were lying to yourself. “You’re my slave.”

You jerked out of his grasp. You breathed heavily up at him, unable to tell if he was mocking or serious. His face betrayed no answer; you had a sinking feeling it was both.

“You’re sick,” you hissed.

“That’s not very nice,” he murmured disapprovingly, rubbing soap down your legs now. He washed it away, and his hands began to spread your thighs.

“Don’t,” you choked. “I thought you said you weren’t going to—“

“I’m not,” he cut across you, not moving his hands. “Just washing you.”

“Don’t,” you breathed. “I don’t want you to. Not there.”

He paused for a moment, then pulled away, an unreadable expression on his face. “Fine,” he said simply. It was his turn to cross his arms, and he leaned against the side of the shower. “You do it, then.”

“You’re sick,” you repeated, embarrassment washing over your features.

“Nothing I haven’t already seen.” He waited. “Don’t be ashamed of your body,” he breathed in that same seductive tone he had used at the beginning of the shower.

You glared at him as you washed yourself, at least grateful that his eyes never left yours to wander.

“There you go,” he murmured when you were done. “My turn,” he said simply as he lifted you and stepped into the stream of water himself. He pressed two bottles into your hands and waited expectantly.

“You’re joking,” you breathed. “You’re mental. I’m not touching you.”

“Fair is fair,” he said, raising an eyebrow and gesturing at the bottles.

“Don’t talk to me about fairness!”

Your voice rang out, reverberating through the refresher, sounding much louder than intended. He waited patiently; you were shocked he hadn’t slapped you by now.

“Are you quite finished?” he asked coolly.

Again you felt like a child—a child getting scolded by a parent for throwing a tantrum.

 _You are a child_ , your mind repeated his words from earlier. You set your jaw, swallowing down the bile that rose in your throat.

He sighed. “I’d like to have dinner eventually. So, a small trade: you reciprocate like a good girl, and I’ll let you wear something warm while we eat.”

Your nostrils flared. “You’re cruel.”

“Trading something you want for something I want is ‘cruel’?” He raised an eyebrow. “I can think of crueler things.”

“I don’t doubt it,” you said under your breath, squeezing shampoo into your palm. He smirked and came closer.

“Good girl,” he said patronizingly.

“Shut up,” you groaned, hands reaching up to lather his hair. He pressed two fingers against your lips.

He made a low sound in his throat. “Open your mouth.”

You tensed immediately, the memories of last night shooting back to you.

“I won’t go that deep,” he said, sensing your panic. “But you don’t get to talk to me that way.”

He sounded so calm and self-assured. It wasn’t worth fighting. You opened your mouth as you worked the shampoo out of his hair, and he slipped his fingers into your mouth. It was hard to focus on washing him as he played with your tongue, rubbing his fingers back and forth on it as you sucked them obediently. You could see his cock rising in your periphery as you finished with his hair.

He seemed to sense you were unsure about what to do now. He grasped your hands, dragging them down to his chest; you made small soapy circles like he had done on your back, and he moaned in approval. He dropped his other hand to his cock, shoving his fingers a bit deeper in your mouth when you started to object.

He stroked himself firmly, eyes glued to your mouth, his eyelashes fluttering a little as you washed his chest off. Obscene noises came from below, the wet sound of him beating himself off echoing through the shower.

“Where do you want me to cum?” he breathed heavily, fisting his cock hard.

“Not on me!” 

“Pick or I will,” he growled.

“Uhh, stomach,” you sputtered, and he stepped closer, his cock already level with your stomach due to his height. He continued breathing heavily as he pumped his cock a few more times, fingers working gruffly in and out of your mouth. Grunting his release, he came a smattering of strips across your stomach.

Forcing his fingers out of your mouth with your tongue, you pressed into the water and washed his cum off you before he could stop you.

“ _’I’m not going to do anything_ ’,” you repeated hollowly.

“Did I penetrate you? No. I could have.” He grunted at you. He was losing his patience. “And you need to remember your manners. You haven’t been addressing me properly, for one.”

You looked down: playtime was clearly over.


	7. 7

He seemed to agree, shutting off the water and stepping out of the shower. Accepting a towel he handed you, you wrapped yourself in it defensively. He toweled off his hair and wrapped one around his waist, striding out of the refresher. You followed, unsure of what else to do, and sat down at the foot of his bed.

“Did I say you were allowed on my bed?” he said coolly without turning, rustling through drawers with his back to you.

You swallowed. “May I please sit on your bed, sir?” you asked as sweetly as you could muster.

“No,” he replied simply, whipping around and dragging you off the end and bringing you to your knees. He held out a sweater with his other hand—the sweater he wore last night, though your vomit had now been cleaned off it. “Here.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, pulling it over your head quickly, desperate for the warmth and cover. It fell to your knees. He remained where he was; you looked up quizzically.

“I don’t think that’s how you thank me,” he said, thumb brushing your lips. His anger seemed to be fading, at least, though he was now insisting on the formalities he liked.

“Thank you for the clothing, _Master_ ,” you breathed, face flushing as you said the words.

He smirked. “You’re welcome.” He strode back to the dresser, throwing the towel aside. Your breath hitched slightly, and you yelled at yourself silently for feeling attraction. You watched his broad shoulders flex slightly as he pulled on a black undershirt—looked on as his tall frame bent to step into soft-looking loose pants, which he tied carelessly at his waist. You shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the slight wetness between your legs from watching him touch himself and dress. You were _kneeling_ for the man. _This is wrong_ , you hissed at yourself bitterly.

Then he picked up his datapad, beginning to key in a few commands.

“Do you eat meat?” he asked without looking up. “Not just fish?”

“Sometimes, when I can…” you stumbled over the words awkwardly. You ate mostly what you foraged for, rarely travelling into the city, and could hardly bear to kill animals most of the time. Mostly you stuck to fishing the and fruits, vegetables, and nuts you collected, or cheap meats in the city.

“Do you _like_ meat?” He was still punching things into the pad.

“Yes.”

He looked up with mild disapproval.

“Yes, Master,” you added quickly. He nodded and went back to ordering, keying in a few last things before setting the pad down. He sat on the bed, just behind and to the left of where he had made you kneel. One hand snaked into your hair, winding it idly around his fingers.

“We’ll eat soon,” he reassured you, sensing how hungry you were.

Your eyes fluttered a few times as silence fell, increasingly weak from the days of starvation and the exertion of showering with him. Forcing yourself to breathe, you took a gamble; you leaned into the leg beside you, resting your head against his knee. He seemed to pause for a moment. Then he stroked the side of your face gently, expressing his approval.

“Tired?”

“Yes, sir,” voice betraying your drowsiness.

“I’m sorry, love. You can sleep soon.”

You felt a kind of warmth wrap around you when he uttered the pet name. _This is sick!_ your mind screamed at you, but you stamped out the thought. His praise felt good; you needed to feel good right now. _I’m fucked up_.

You stared down at your hands; he seemed to be back in a good mood, fingers still stroking your cheek with a strange kind of possessive tenderness. Curiosity burned within you, however ill-advised you knew it to be. _Time for another gamble_.

“Can I ask you a question, sir?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

“Best not to speak then,” he chastised. You fell silent again, obeying the suggestion. He sighed heavily a moment later—you had forced the question out of your mind so he couldn’t pry it from you easily. “What is it?” he asked.

“No one names their child ‘Kylo’” you whispered hesitantly. His hand stopped on your face, and you dared not breathe—until he chuckled.

“You’re right. It wasn’t my birthname… which is none of your business.” It wasn’t fully a rebuke, but he said it just firmly enough for you to know not to press it.

You fell silent for a moment as he played with your hair again.

“ _’It’s red’_ ,” you echoed quietly.

He snorted.

“Will you tell me something else from your life, then? Please.”  

He paused, seemingly surprised you wanted to learn about him at all.

“Something else? Something else.” He made a small noise of thought.

~

He looked down at the girl, twisting his fingers in her hair. It was a perfect moment; she was on her knees at his feet, resting against him, taking an interest in him. Her question seemed genuine—she wasn’t kissing ass anymore. She wanted to know his name. He wouldn’t share it; he didn’t want her repeating it in her mind like she had been with _‘Kylo’_. He smirked at the thought, winding locks of her hair around his index finger. He thought for a moment, searching for something he wouldn’t mind sharing—something personal.

“One of my parents was a pilot,” he started. “They taught me.”

Her head shot up, and she turned on her knees, looking up at him in awe. “You’re a pilot?” She wore a wide smile, as though he had never hurt her before at all. Her eyes were wide and excited; she was beautiful.

He nodded, dropping his hand to caress the side of her face.

“What do you fly?” she asked, completely forgetting his rules for addressing him in her excitement. He let it slide; she looked too sweet to yell at.

“A TIE Silencer, usually. “

“Holy _shit_. Those are really rare.”

He smirked. _Adorable_. “The onboard systems were made for me, based on my post-flight reports.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Well, they’re made for speed and handling—“

She cut across him eagerly. “To fly, I mean.”

He paused. “To… fly? You’ve never flown?”

She shook her head, a little wrinkle appearing between her brows. “This is the first time I’ve been on any kind of ship.”

He paused, looking down at her in shock. “You’ve never flown,” he repeated quietly. A look of embarrassment flashed across her features, and she rested her head against his knee again, dropping her eyes. He brushed her mind gently; she felt ashamed, outclassed again by his wealth and experience—she had never had experiences like _flying_. He brushed her hair out of her face, tucking stray strands behind her ear.

“I could probably take you,” he murmured quietly after a moment.

She straightened up slowly. “Are you joking?”

He resumed petting her, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Not if you’re good for me. I can do whatever I want.”

She blinked a few times, surprise etched across her features. There was a little hint of regret, too—maybe for grappling with him in the shower, or—

His train of thought was cut off by a knock at the door. Stretching out his hand, he grabbed hold of the pillow that flew into it and threw it down in front of one of the dining table chairs. “Kneel there,” he commanded, pointing to the spot.

~

You obeyed, too hungry to object, moving to the spot as he stood and answered the door.

A droid carried the serving tray of food to the table. “Lord Ren,” it acknowledged him, setting it down and bowing its head as it left.

He snickered; she already looked confused, though she knew enough not to question him. The blaster door slid shut again as the droid exited, and he took the seat in front of her.

He sat, spreading his legs slightly for you. “Come here,” he murmured, curling two fingers towards you, beckoning you forward. You obeyed hesitantly, positioning yourself between his legs, eyes flickering towards his crotch.

He chuckled. “Not this time,” he remarked, patting one of his thighs.

You forced yourself to swallow, resting your head against his thigh nervously. Strong legs rested on either side of you as he leaned back a little in the chair, eyes scanning the tray the droid had delivered.

“Are you hungry?” he asked softly, meeting your eyes for a moment.

You wet your lips, gulping down the shame you felt. “Yes, Master,” you whimpered compliantly, cursing yourself for being so pathetic.

But he appreciated it, strong hands collecting your hair and draping it over one shoulder. Then they left, and he appeared to be cutting something above you. He held something out—a thin slice of steak, pinched between his thumb and index finger.

 _He’s going to make you eat out of his hand._ The realization swam around you in a dizzying fashion as he held it out expectantly. You could feel your face glowing what you were sure was a bright red from the shame.

“That’s humiliating,” you barely dared to breath, recoiling from between his legs. “I’d rather not eat at all.”

He sighed, popping it into his mouth instead. He chewed and swallowed, a look of exaggerated bliss covering his face. “It’s good,” he teased, “and it’s going to get cold if you waste time.”

You said nothing, tears of frustration growing in your eyes. You trained them on an object across the room instead of looking at him.

He sighed again, hooking the same fingers under your chin and making you look at him again. He leaned forward, face nearly level with yours.

“Something’s only humiliating if there’s someone there to humiliate you—to judge. We’re alone. It’s just us now.”

You blinked, choking on the words as a tear ran down your cheek. Your stomach betrayed you with a growl. “There is someone to humiliate me—you.”

He shook his head, thumbing away your tear and stroking the side of your face. “I’m not judging you. You’re with me, where you belong. I want this; I don’t think you’re stupid for giving me what I want.”

“ _’You’re nothing’_ ,” you echoed his words from the day before, voice hitching with emotion on the last syllable.

“But not to me,” he purred, pinching another piece of steak and holding it out.  

Your eyes flitted back to his, where he held them. You searched for any sign that he was mocking you, but you found none. He wanted to hand-feed you—wanted to feel you submit, wanted to feed you himself.

“You’re overthinking this,” he murmured reassuringly, cutting off your train of thought. “It feels intimate, doesn’t it?” His voice was low and gentle, wrapping around you as if a hug. “It is.” He held it out again, stopping before your lips. “Eat with me.”

You choked down the last of your pride and parted your lips slightly, allowing him to place the food on your tongue. You closed your mouth quickly as he withdrew his fingers, following him with your eyes as he reached up to cut another piece. You chewed quickly, trying not to enjoy it—but you could tell it was _good_ steak. _His_ steak. The kind of steak the Commander of the First Order would be served.

“Breathe,” he instructed gently, sensing that you weren’t. His voice wrapped around you like velvet, warm and subduing. “Stop thinking,” he murmured, holding out another piece. “Your thoughts are so loud. Quiet them.” He popped another piece of steak in your waiting mouth, watching you chew and swallow with approval.

“That’s my good girl.” _My_. It hung heavy in the area, strangely comforting. He patted his thigh again, and suddenly you understood—your head felt light; you felt vaguely as if you were floating.

“Stop it,” you whispered weakly as you rest your head against his thigh. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re doing something to me. You’re doing something… with, with the force.” You winced—you sounded stupid.

“I’m not doing anything with the force, love.” He speared some steak for himself. “You’re just starting to feel the endorphins. Let it happen. Relax. You’re safe with me.”

One of his hands stroked her hair gently as he ate a few bites, letting her adjust to the feeling of subspace. He monitored her breathing, watched her reactions as he fed her. He reached out with the force occasionally, brushing against her mind. Her thoughts were starting to calm. She was no longer wondering if she looked stupid with every morsel she accepted from him. Instead she was starting to enjoy the flavors—and the intimacy of being fed, of resting on him, accepting his care.

You watched as he brought wine to his lips, eyes latching onto yours as he drank. He leaned forward, offering you the same glass.

“Do you want some, beautiful?” _Beautiful_. Weirdly, you believed him.

You nodded slightly, eyelids growing heavy as you started to feel full.

“Only a little,” he murmured, letting you take two small sips. You rarely had alcohol; it was too expensive in the city, and too much effort to try to make yourself. Plus, none of the native Zoess fruits lent themselves well to wine.

The flavor filled your mouth, rich and smooth. You knew just enough to know it was good wine, expensive—like everything else here. He lifted the glass to his mouth again, taking larger sips, no doubt used to drinking wine like this all the time. You wondered vaguely what his childhood was like; had he always been comfortable? One had been a pilot; he had learned it from them. What about the other parent? Did he keep in touch with them? Did they miss him desperately—

“Shhh,” he whispered, instantly silencing your wandering thoughts. He held something fruity up to your lips, and you accepted without a second thought.

He fed her a bit more, sharing a dessert, before her eyelids seemed to be weighing on her.

“Do you want more?” he asked gently.

“I don’t think so,” she whimpered softly, trembling a little between his legs.

“You’re full?”

She nodded.

“Do you want to sleep?”

Another nod.

“Don’t try to get up on your own,” he murmured, standing and bending down to hook both arms under hers, pulling her up with ease. He wrapped an arm around her waist and carried her to the bed, setting her down gently against a pillow. He pulled the covers back, helping her wiggle under them, the hem of his sweater riding up, exposing her lower half to him. She seemed not to notice, and he pulled the covers up over her, tucking her in. She was too spacey and too tired for sex.

He left the tray where it was, climbing into bed on the other side and scooting over to her. Rolling onto his side, he draped an arm over her, letting her know he was there. Her smaller hands reached to rest on his forearm, seemingly wanting him close.

“I—“ her shaky voice started, but he cut her off.

“Shhh,” he murmured, pressing his fingers to her lips. “No talking.”

“But I want to—“

“Not in this state, love. You’d tell me anything. Go to sleep now.”

And he rested his own head next to her, nuzzling her into his neck. Her breathing soon went shallow, eyes shut peacefully as she slept.

He waved a lazy hand, and the lights went out.


	8. 8

You awoke to soft breathing by your side. Stretching out, you moaned softly as the silky sheets rubbed against your skin. His bed felt so good; for once, you were warm. But all at once you froze, the memories of the night before flooding back to you. Shame covered your skin in hot pinpricks, tears forming in your eyes. You’d let him own you: liked it, even. In turn, he’d been gentler: stroking your hair, holding you close. It wasn’t an image of him that you wanted—you wanted to think of him as nothing but evil and cruel. He was easier to hate that way.

You sat up slowly, not wanting to wake him. He continued breathing softly beside you; he was laying on his back now, eyes closed, peaceful. Your eyes flicked around the room as they watered, searching for his lightsaber. You could turn it on yourself and ignite it quickly; end these feelings, end your confusion.

 _There_. It rested on the nightstand beside him. Pushing yourself up to your knees slowly, you leaned over him, extending your arm to grab hold of it—

Two strong hands grasped your waist and threw you to the ground, hard. The back of your head hit the floor, stars spinning before your eyes. You sputtered, the wind knocked out of you. Gasping for breath, you turned on your side as the figure bent over you. Rough hands seized the hem of his sweater, pulling it gruffly up your body and off you. He tossed it across the room. You shivered, cool air hitting your naked body.

“Being in my bed is a privilege,” he sneered. “You don’t deserve it.”

You continued breathing hard, not daring to look at him. He said nothing, holding his weapon in his hand.

“You—“ you coughed. “You assume—wrongly—that I wanted to kill _you_.”

He paused. You took the opportunity, pushing yourself up hard to grab at the lightsaber—

You were immobilized just as quickly, only the tips of your fingers touching the weapon. He sat on the edge of the bed where you now knelt, pushing your frozen arm down to your side. His eyes bored into you, empty, as he ignited his lightsaber over your shoulder. Heat crackled through the air, the unstable beam singing you ever so slightly.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked quietly, voice hollow.

You could say nothing, only look up at him with pleading eyes—pleading with him to end you. He hesitated for a moment, then turned it off, tossing the weapon aside.

“Too bad,” he breathed, a clear hint of resentment in his voice.

He stood, walking out of view; you collapsed to the floor, no longer held in place by the force. You gasped for breath again and started to cry bitterly.

“How long until I die?” you asked.

No answer.

“I can’t live like this!” you screamed, voice cracking as you palmed the ground.

“You have to.” He replied, voice low and tinged with an uncaring tone. “It’s the only choice you have.”

“I won’t,” you breathed hysterically, tears blinding your vision. “I’ll kill myself. I’ll find a way.”

Heavy footsteps approached you. He wore boots now; he had been dressing. A hand closed around your upper arm, and he dragged you—kicking and screaming—to the end of his bed. Chains flew into his outstretched hand from under it, and he cuffed your wrists together quickly. You fumed up at him, pulling against your chains with all your might. But they wouldn’t budge, and with a sigh he cuffed your ankles together, too. He stooped level with your face, admiring his work.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he breathed lightly. And then, to your horror, he planted a soft kiss on your cheek. You glared up at him, packing as much hatred as you could into the look—but he had already straightened up and turned away.

You pulled against your restraints hard, bitter tears streaming down your cheeks. Maybe if you pulled hard enough, you could at least manage to hurt yourself. You shouted obscenities at him, praying to rile him up enough that perhaps he’d do it for you. But no response came; he continued dressing in silence. All at once, you felt like the child he had called you. He made you feel like an unruly toddler throwing a temper tantrum for not getting what she wanted—he, the patient parent waiting for the bad behavior to end.

 _‘Are you quite finished’_ , his words from before echoed in your head.

Your chest rose and fell, heart beating hard in your chest. You cursed it for beating at all, staring at the wall in front of you as though you could burn a hole into it—burn the whole room down, you inside it.

Another heavy footstep, and his helmet bored down into you. “I’ll be back later,” the mechanical voice said, the robed figure striding to the door. You were grateful for the small blessing; he was easy to despise like this—no brown eyes to contend with, no human voice to wrap around you. Like this, he was evil and inhuman: his presence cold and metal against your soul. _Like it should be_.

The figure turned just before the door. “Be a good girl,” the mechanical voice chastised. Even through the static, his mocking tone was clear.

“I hope you die out there,” you spat viciously.

A cold chuckle was the only response you received before the blaster door slammed shut behind him.

Silence fell in the room, and you spent the next hours pulling desperately against your restraints. You willed your wrists to shrink, tried to cram your fingers together and pull a hand out, even briefly considered trying to dislocate something. But it appeared nothing would work, and soon your rage exhausted you. Purple welts covered your wrists and ankles from the hard fighting.

You had had this problem when you first escaped into the jungle: the loneliness. It had been crushing and all-consuming; the abuse you’d suffered had at least grown familiar. Alone, you had to construct a new life for yourself, find ways to pass the time. You quickly learned to pick nuts and berries, and the small animals became your friends. But there were no little animals here to share your thoughts with. There was no chance of getting up and moving. Nothing to do but sit and think. So, naturally, you tried everything _not_ to think. You had counted to the 154 th Porg in your head when you drifted to sleep.

“You don’t look very dead.”

Jerking awake, you found yourself staring up into Kylo Ren’s helmet. You rubbed your eyes, scowling up at him.

“Neither do you. How very disappointing.” It was one of those things that just _slipped out_.

He pinched your cheeks together with one hand, stooping down to your eye level. His robes swung about his feet.

“Don’t forget who’s in charge here, little whore” the hollow vocoded voice warned.

You said nothing, staring as boldly as you could manage in the spot you knew his eyes would be. He held your jaw for a moment more, then straightened up again and stepped away.

You heard a soft hissing noise, followed by the clunk of heavy metal. _He had taken off his helmet_.

“Are you hungry?” His natural voice rung out somewhere to your right, soft and warm. If you hadn’t watched him take his helmet off before, you would have sworn this was an entirely different person. You said nothing, closing your eyes instead. You wouldn’t beg for food; he liked it when you begged—got off on it, even. _He’s a murderer. He doesn’t deserve anything._

“Are you?” he prompted again, less patience in his voice now. The familiar ridges of his gloved hand stroked the side of your face; you turned it away quickly in disgust. He sighed, the sound of a few datapad selections following. He seemed to finish whatever he was doing—ordering food, you presumed—and kicked his boots off.  

Silence fell again, and you let it hang heavy in the air. Perhaps if you ignored him—

“Do you need the refresher?” his words ended your train of thought.

He stood before you, fully clothed but for his boots and cowl. It was still an intimidating sight. Embarrassment crept across your features; you looked away again, shaking your head.

He moved closer, stepping directly in front of you; fingers hooked under your chin, drawing your gaze to his.

“Don’t lie to me,” he murmured dangerously. “I won’t ask again.”

A tear played at the inner corner of your eye, and you gave a short nod.

“I want to hear you,” he breathed, fingers playing at the edge of your restraints.

“Please don’t make me beg you for the refresher,” you whispered brokenly, a small plea in your voice.

He sighed, drawing up to his full height.

“You’ll beg for everything in time.” This deep voice sounded so confident, so sure. It wasn’t a request, or even an order. He was just _telling you_.

Despair sank into you for a fleeting second, but then the restraints opened and dropped away. He hooked his arms under yours, grasping around your waist with one. Carrying you into the refresher, he set you down lightly in front of the toilet. Then, to your horror, he stayed where he was.

“Do I have no privacy?” you asked hotly, face flushing again in embarrassment.

“None,” he murmured softly, a mocking edge in his voice. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you.

“You’re disgusting,” you breathed, sitting down on the toilet and glaring at the wall across from him.

The tear that had been blurring your vision slid down your cheek as you swallowed your pride. You could feel his gaze steady on you as you used the toilet in front of him—at least he was staring at your face, you thought to yourself. He helped you up when you were done, legs wobbly and sore from being pressed to your chest all day. You washed your hands, adjusting the water to be warmer, savoring the small bit of control over _something._

“Where’s my thanks?” his voice spoke, low and threatening.

You made a scoffing noise in your throat. “Get bent.”

The irony stung when a moment later he grasped between your shoulders, forcing your upper half down to grasp the wastebasket on the floor. His glove dropped to the floor next to you.

“What did you say to me?” he growled, palming your ass with his bare hand.

You pressed your lips together, refusing to answer.

He brought a hard smack down on your ass, the fleshy noise echoing through the tiled room. You yelped, and you heard a low noise behind you—a groan, perhaps.

“What. Did. You. Say. To. Me?” he repeated, voice calm but measured, shoving emphasis into each word. You forced yourself to swallow, closing your eyes for the next blow.

It came quickly when it became apparent you still refused to answer.

One hand gathered up your hair, and he twisted it once, pulling your head back slightly. You felt his breath against your ear, hand caressing your ass threateningly.

“Answer me, right now, or I swear to you I will leave your ass redder than you thought possible.” His breathing slightly labored, and you didn’t doubt him. This excited him; he would be happy to do it.

You gulped. “I told you to ‘get bent’,” you breathed hesitantly.

He waited, pulling harder at your hair.

“Sir,” you added quickly. He relaxed his grip a tiny bit, hand rubbing over your ass and squeezing each cheek.

“Do you think it’s acceptable to speak to me that way?” He slapped each cheek lightly as he spoke—a threat of something greater to come, should you not cooperate.

“No,” you breathed, barely a whisper.

He slapped your ass harshly again.

“You know better by now. No, _what_?” his voice was in your ear, hungry and demanding.

“No, _Master_. It’s not acceptable to speak to you that way,” you whimpered as he forced your back into an arch, hand still caressing your ass dangerously.

He paused for a moment, then released your hair, letting you stand. You had made it mostly across the threshold when he stopped you, pressing you up against the door frame. He flipped you around to face him.

“One more thing,” he said breathily, eyes meeting yours. Amusement danced on his features—and there was something else. A hungry look. “Is your fucking pussy wet for me right now?”

You glared at him, nostrils flaring, your frustration boiling up in you. You looked away, boring a hole in the wall with your eyes.

“Tell me,” he whispered in your ear, nipping it gently. You jumped slightly, and shivered, but he held you in place, hands caressing down your sides to your hips. He waited a second longer, then dipped a hand between your legs. A thick finger slid between your folds as he cupped you, brushing against your clit and moving to tease your entrance.

“Ah,” he whispered to you, voice velvet and seductive. “It is.”

You closed your eyes in shame as he played with you, fingers forcing a radiating pleasure through your body.

“You’re a submissive little girl,” he breathed heavily into your ear. “Lucky for you, I’m going to give you everything you want.”

His touch forced a moan from you, and you knew he was smiling.

 _Bastard_.


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I don't know why you all gagging, she bring it to you every time."

You were saved by the knock at the door.

A droid scurried in, a plate of food in hand.

“Hello, Master Ren,” it greeted formally, bowing its head.

“Hello—“ it turned to you, but quickly stopped. A moment passed; it seemed to stare at your nakedness. Its programming seemed to not have accounted for this situation. “Oh. I must be going now.” It left the room just as fast as it had entered.

You shot a glare at your captor, who now had his back to you. He sat perched on the end of his bed, spooning food into his mouth. “Come here,” he motioned to you without looking back, indicating you should take a place on the floor next to him. You scowled. The last thing you wanted to do right now was obey him—not after what he had just done. You didn’t want to let him win.

When you didn’t respond, he craned his neck around to look at you.

“Do you want an ass so sore you can’t sit?” He wore his distinctive don’t-fuck-with-me look.

You set your jaw bitterly and walked over to kneel next to his left leg, where he had been pointing to the ground. A hand snaked into your hair, and bile rose in your throat. He ate in silence for a few more moments. Then he stabbed some vegetables with his fork, holding them to your lips. He tugged your hair lightly, forcing you to look at him.

You shook your head.

“I know you’re hungry,” he murmured, brushing your lips with the food.

Your eyes flicked to the plate. He had only ordered food for himself.

“There’ll be less for you,” you replied, a hint of sarcasm in your voice. He knew that’s not why you wouldn’t eat. A smirked crossed his lips.

“So sweet of you. But I can eat whenever I want to. You can’t.” He brought the food to his mouth instead.

Your stomach growled in betrayal, but you ignored it—and him, as you were sure his smirk had only grown wider.

“I won’t be eating anymore,” you said with as much conviction as you could pack into the words, picking at your legs, avoiding his eyes.

“Is that right?” he murmured softly, left hand playing with your hair.

You made a sound of stubborn acknowledgement.

“You know that won’t work?” he purred, responding to your thoughts. Your nostrils flared at the intrusion. “I’ll force food down your throat long before you can starve yourself to death.”

 _Goddammit_.

He speared another bite, this time bringing chicken to your lips. It smelled good, and you were hungry.

“Eat,” he encouraged, holding the fork there. “There’s no point in going hungry.”

You acquiesced just enough for him to slide the food into your mouth. Closing, you chewed and swallowed with as much resentment as you could manage. You let him similarly feed you a few vegetables before shaking your head.

“You’re still hungry,” he said, pausing.

You said nothing, staring straight ahead.

“Obstinate,” he sighed, taking the bite he was holding out for himself instead. He said nothing further to you as he ate, as if punishment for refusing his food. Your eyes flicked over him, watching him eat. His clothes looked wrong for him like this; the imposing layers of clothing falling too dramatically on his frame, which was now focused on cutting up the chicken breast. _Too normal. It’s too normal for him to be hungry._

“I hate this,” you said suddenly.

He stopped, eyes meeting yours. Displeasure crossed his face immediately, mixed with a hint of something else—hurt, maybe? It disappeared faster than you could place it.

“You’re not supposed to be hungry.” He blinked at you. Ignoring him, you continued. “You’re not supposed to have needs or preferences or anything. You’re not supposed to be _human_.”

He still stared at you in silence, face betraying no emotion.

“It’s—it’s—it’s _indecent_.” You gestured as you spat the word—he hadn’t shackled you to the bed again.

He sat still for several moments, considering you. Then he started eating again, eyes back on his own plate, as though nothing had ever happened.

You huffed and started to push yourself to your feet, but he placed one hand on your shoulder and pushed you back down. He finished the rest of his meal in silence; you crossed your arms over your chest, pulling your knees up defensively.

When he was done, firm hands closed around your wrists and ankles, again binding you to the bed. He drew up to his full height slowly, then turned on his heel, grabbing his datapad. Your eyes followed him; he sat at the far end of the dinner table, eyes flicking up to look at you only once before turning on the pad and immersing himself in something.

You thought he would break the silence—issue another humiliating command—before bedtime, but he didn’t. Instead, you’d spent the evening memorizing every bolt on the wall across from you as he read in silence. When he changed for bed, he waved his hand, your chains dropping away. One arm closed around your waist, and he re-secured you at the head of his bed instead of the foot, chains a bit longer this time—they allowed you to lay down. You accepted the hard comfort of the ground as you heard the bed shift above you, accommodating his weight. His breathing slowed over time until it found a steady rhythm; you closed your own eyes, desperate to sleep.

When the night ended, his silence didn’t. You were taken to the refresher in silence and allowed to use the toilet and wash your hands and face—then you were fastened to the foot of the bed again. His eyes refused to meet yours all the while, even as you jerked your head around, trying to force him to. He dressed in silence and left in silence, without so much as a backward glance.

You spent the first few hours fighting your restraints again, your already black-and-blue bruises protesting. When you finally gave up, you huffed, blowing a stray piece of hair out of your face. Instead, you spent your time looking around the room for anything that could count as a weapon. Your eyes settled on a heavy looking helmet across from you. It rested on the coffee table—a sculpture, you guessed. It had been broken and warped in some places for apparent artistic affect. You didn’t begin to try to understand the man’s taste in art.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you wondered how he managed to make things fly around like he did. You had been told stories of people like him when you were little, but you’d always thought they were bullshit. Eyeing the helmet sculpture, you set your jaw and stared at it intently. Nothing happened. You groaned, letting your head fall back on the end of the bed. Staring up at the metallic, dark ceiling, you let your eyelids flutter until they closed in sleep.

The rest of the day mirrored the events of the previous night; he took you to the refresher again, then fed you intermittently from his plate. All in silence. You had already decided you wouldn’t beg your _kidnapper_ to speak to you, nor show you tenderness. So you turned your nose up, haughtily gazing at the wall from your perch at the end of the bed.

He read for a while, soft tapping noises occasionally coming from where you knew he sat with his datapad. After a while, he set it down and laid down on the bed behind you, not bothering to move your restraints. You braced yourself to sleep upright. But then the bed started to move, faint shockwaves traveling through it and hitting your back. It was like he was thumping his leg—you ignored it. Only when slick sounds and his light groans begin to echo through the air did you crane your neck to look back. He was masturbating: tissues poised in his left hand, jerking himself off with his right.

Your jaw fell open, and you looked away quickly. A strange bitterness fell over you when you realized you hadn’t once felt his eyes fall on you—he wasn’t masturbating to you, or even thinking of you. He was going about a bachelor’s routine as if you didn’t exist. In fact the only time he acknowledged your presence at all was when he met fundamental needs—letting you use the toilet, giving you bites to eat, or tipping water into your mouth.

Your face burned as you heard a loud groan from behind you. The bed stilled. He had ejaculated. You watched in part disgust and part fascination as he stood—still ignoring you—and threw a wad of tissues into the wastebasket. Disappearing into the refresher, you heard the shower turn on a moment later. You listened with jealousy from your prison at the foot of his bed, imagining the soap cleaning _you_ , hot water running over _your_ body. You shivered as you pulled your mind back to reality and waited to be put to bed.

When he emerged, the only towel he wore hung around his shoulders. You quickly looked away, dropping your eyes to the floor. You didn’t want him to want to go another round or get any ideas. And he didn’t; simply performed the nightly routine of tying you up towards the head of the bed, so you could stretch out on the floor next to him.

The next few days came and went in this fashion. The food varied; sometimes he jerked off sitting upright, sometimes lying down. Nothing much else changed. You were getting tired of counting the bolts on the wall by the fourth day, and—as much as you hated it—eagerly awaited his return. Even if he wouldn’t talk to you, his presence was at least something _new_ in the room: something new to stare at and think about. Sometimes you counted the rows in his quilted tunic; other times you tried to make out the number of scuffs on his boots.

He went about his usual routine that night, ordering himself dinner on his datapad, sitting down quietly on the bed next to where you sat on the floor. This time he ate a stew, a side of thick, sour bread accompanying it. He offered you a spoonful, following it with a small piece of bread that he tore away for you. You accepted gratefully this time, ravenously hungry from the small once-a-day scraps he had given you. But as the food touched your lips, you started to cry. He seemed to shift uncomfortably on the bed, and his eyes met yours in a rare moment of connection. Looking away after a moment, he went back to ignoring you; you cried harder. After swallowing your third spoonful, you leaned into his leg, desperate for comfort. It had been _days_ since he spoke to you, hardly even looking at you, either. You were willing to beg, now. You needed human interaction.

You laid your head just above his left knee, one hand clutching his calf. The muscles in his leg tensed, and for a moment he was still. Then, very suddenly, he ripped his leg away from you, standing and walking over to the table, where he sat and finished his meal.

Hard sobs wracked your body, which you turned slightly to grab hold of the bed. Fisting the material in your hands, you cursed at him, breaking your own silence of several days.

“Why are you so fucking cruel?” you spat through heavy sobs, trying to catch your breath.

A dark look overtook his features, spreading across his face, dimming his eyes. Heavy footsteps pounded towards you, and you curled up in fear, burying your head between your knees. But as quickly as they approached, they passed you. You heard the blaster door open and shut. The sound of his lightsaber igniting echoed from the hall outside, its crackling noise seeping faintly through the door. Then, suddenly, the air was filled with _not_ so faint noises; guttural screaming, followed by the sound of a lightsaber slicing air, then metal deforming. A few sparks shot under the door and died on the metal floors of his quarters.

You scrambled down the length of the bed, pulling hard at your restraints. Tears streamed down your cheeks as the sounds of him destroying the foyer resonated. You had begged for death before, sure, but this wasn’t quite how you’d wanted to die. He was going to make it hurt, you were sure of it. He was going to make it slow and painful, drag his blade through—

You paused, realizing the heavy footsteps were moving quickly away from you. They pounded down the hall until they grew soft, then disappeared. You cried a bit longer, traumatized by his quick shift between calm eating and destructive rage; you’d never seen him fly off the handle quite like that. He’d been painfully measured and evil with you lots, but never showed too much emotion. But he’d just _fucking lost it_. You shivered.

You weren’t sure how long you were alone—at a certain point, you’d given up and resorted to staring at the wall again, which led to counting imaginary porgs, which led to sleep. When you awoke, gloved hands were fastening your restraints to the head of his bed, stretching you out on the ground for the night. He had his helmet on now, and you stared up at it, eyes full of anxiety and fear. His hands left you a moment later, though he seemed to hesitate above you. Soon the moment passed, and he stepped out of view. You heard the helmet latches come undone as darkness fell in the room—a moment later, the usual sound of the bed shifting under his weight.

You cried softly for a while, occasionally stifling a sniffle as you tried to clear your throat. Running your hand over the cold metal of the floor, you let your breath steam up the metal, drawing little shapes in it. You had almost fallen asleep when you felt the back of his hand run down your arm gently, as if trying to caress you. You jumped; the touch had been unexpected. Just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. You sniffled again—somewhat dramatically—and curled up, arms wrapping around yourself for sleep.

But then you felt it: smooth and slightly warm against your skin. You refused to open your eyes as he brushed something against your arm. After a few moments, you heard a very faint sigh, and the sound of him rolling away across the bed.

You pressed your eyes shut for several minutes, exhausted from the emotions of the day, too scared to open your eyes and see what he’d pressed against you.

When you did, small glossy eyes stared back at you.

The teddy bear was on its side, facing you, as though it too wanted to fall fast asleep.


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait; I'm back at college, and life's been a mess. I also wrote and re-wrote this chapter like 3 times. There were a lot of directions I could've gone here, and most of them didn't feel right. 
> 
> Also -- I'm uploading a fic I wrote but don't plan to continue (I don't think). It was the first I ever wrote, and I ended up just not liking it very much. But there's bonus smut in there, if you're into it (and some plot).

All you heard for a few long seconds was the sound of your own breathing.

It was quiet at first, but it quickly grew rapid, cutting through the silence in the room. Tears stung your eyes, sniffling a few times.

You reached out, fingers grasping the bear. It was soft— _comforting_.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice barely a whisper. It had cracked on the third syllable, and you wondered if he had heard you at all; part of you hoped he hadn’t. But the bed stirred above you, and slowly—hesitantly—you noticed him peering down at you. His brows seemed to be furrowed together.

You squeezed your eyes shut and clutched the bear to your chest, a single tear sliding down the side of your face.

“What?” he spoke finally, voice softer than usual yet not quite a whisper. He sounded almost eager for something, his voice tinged with a slight breathlessness.

“I’m sorry,” you choked, tears threatening to stream down your face as you held your eyes shut. “You’re human.” _Somehow._

He had pushed himself up, his hands now playing with the chains.

“Will you promise not to hurt yourself?” he asked, voice gentle and coaxing.

You paused long enough to sniffle again, flinching slightly at the words. “Tonight,” you qualified your answer, hoping it was enough.

He sighed, but gave a wave of his hand just the same. Your restraints fell away, and he moved to set his feet down on the ground.

“Do you want to share my bed tonight?” he murmured, same comforting overtone in his voice.

You wiped your tears, cold and alone on the floor. “Yes, Master,” you choked slightly, sounding a little sincerer than you would’ve liked. _You sound pathetic_.

But he didn’t seem to think so; you saw a small smile play at his lips, and he lifted you up onto his lap, where he held you to his chest. He paused for a few moments, one hand underneath your knees, the other reaching up to run his fingers through your hair. You stared down at the bear that in turn rested in _your_ lap.

“What should I name him?” you asked quietly; the question tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop it.

The man paused, pulling back slightly. “Him?” he asked, eyes searching your face. A hint of amusement crossed his features as his eyes travelled down to the bear.

“I think it’s a him,” you murmured, stroking the fur on the top of the bears head.

He made a small sound of acknowledgement above you, one hand rubbing up your back. “Mhm,” he thought, breathing in deeply. The hand supporting your knees opened, as if in an I-don’t-know gesture. “Bear?” he suggested incredulously.

A giggle forced its way out of you. “Bear,” you repeated softly.

Your eyes met his, and you shared a smile. He looked so relaxed—he looked human like _this_. But it wouldn’t last; you knew it wouldn’t. In the morning he would dress, and tie you up here, and leave to kill people. _That’s what he does_.

His smile faded in time with yours. You looked away, shoving down another wave of tears. He cleared his throat, as though bitter he had let his guard down, however brief. A quiet moment passed, and he shifted back on the bed to set you down. He laid out himself, and moved to turn away.

“You still haven’t explained this to me,” you murmured, picking words carefully.

He rolled back to face you, raising an eyebrow, his eyes betraying a dangerous a look.

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

You forced yourself to swallow, fingertips brushing the bear. “How am I supposed to be good for you if I don’t know what it is that you want from me?”

You had shoved as much innocence in the words as you could manage, and it showed on his face; he froze, staring down at the sheets for a moment.

“I don’t know what you’re asking,” he murmured, refusing to look at you.

You looked away, too, turning your head to stare at the blaster door.

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” You said it like a statement.

A pause was all that met you.

“I have no plans to do that,” he said, something new in his voice this time—nervousness, perhaps. Anxiety.

A tear rolled down your cheek. You know it was true, then; he wanted to feel companionship. He wanted someone in his rooms, wanted someone to come home to. There was no getting out of this—no easy death, and certainly no escape. He wanted you to be his.

You stared into the distance in silence for a long time. After a few minutes, you heard a slight rustle behind you; he had set his head on the pillow, still facing you. You felt his eyes on the back of your head for a while, but soon the feeling faded. Turning your head slowly, you peered over at him. He had his eyes closed, but you were sure he wasn’t yet asleep.

You sighed, taking to staring at the ceiling instead.

“What did the other parent do?” you asked suddenly, turning the bear over in your hands.

His eyes opened, considering you for a moment. “What?” he asked, genuine confusion in his voice.

“You said one of your parents was a pilot. What did your other parent do?”

You turned your head to look at him now, eyes meeting. His betrayed nothing as he took a breath, taking a moment to think over your question. You weren’t quite sure he would answer it.

“The other parent,” he started, seeming to choose his words carefully such that he didn’t betray whether it was his mother or his father, “was a politician.” He looked down at his hands now, and you would’ve sworn you saw a flash of bitterness—maybe sadness—before he killed it.

“A politician? On Chandrila?” you asked, suddenly realizing what he was saying. “Isn’t that where the Republic capital once was? Do you mean they were in the Senate?”

He paused, seemingly displeased you knew as much. “Mhm,” he murmured in acknowledgement, still refusing to meet your eyes.

You stared at the ceiling again, thinking this new information over in your mind. A politician; his family had been wealthy _and_ had status. Political influence. They were educated. You wondered vaguely what had happened to him.

“Are they still alive?” you asked hesitantly, hoping he wouldn’t become angry.

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair. He, too, rolled onto his back. “Yes. I think so,” he answered.

“I’m sure they miss you very much,” you murmured, voice little more than a whisper. You knew this was dangerous.

But he only chuckled—bitterly. “No,” he said firmly, a new kind of resolve in his voice. “They don’t.”

“Is that what you tell yourself so you don’t feel guilty about this?” you asked, hands gesturing around the room—to the First Order in general. It had just slipped out, as things seemed to do when you felt strongly.

You had expected it, but he moved faster than you could stop him, large forearms holding your wrists down on either side as he moved above you.

“No,” he spat, “I know it because they _sent me away_.” Fury rose in his voice and covered his face, which was red and angry now. His chest rose and fell in anger, and you forced yourself to swallow. There was something else there, too—in his eyes. _Hurt_.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, tears filling your eyes again. “I know what that feels like,” you whimpered after a moment.

He froze above you, eyes searching your face for something. You weren’t sure if he had found it when he leaned down over you, lips brushing your ear. But he said nothing—instead, his lips pressed to your neck.

A small moan slipped out of your lips as he pressed a kiss to your artery. His lips seemed to smirk against your skin before they pressed lighter kisses down your neck.

“Do you like this?” he moaned into your ear a moment later. His voice was already thick with an edge of seduction—it shot straight to your clit, and he seemed to know it; he dipped his hips slightly, brushing against your thigh so you could feel him hardening.

Your breath hitched, and he smiled.

“You like this,” he answered for you, mouth returning to your neck. He sucked hard on a patch of skin, tongue running over it as you made a small sound of feigned protest. “That’s going to show tomorrow,” he teased softly when he pulled away.

You squirmed under him, and he smirked.

“So needy,” he murmured, still pinning your wrists down at your sides. Your clit burned for touch, and he seemed to sense it, too; his eyes drifted down between you, and he swallowed. “Do you need me to touch you?” It sounded patronizing, 'need'. 

You refused to answer, pressing your lips together, little beads of frustration forming in your eyes.

He brushed his growing erection over you again, pressing harder against your leg.

“Is that what you want, little girl?” he whispered in your ear, nipping the lobe once. “I know it’s what you _need_.”

You shivered once, and he smiled again, brushing his lips over your cheek.

“Tell me,” he insisted. “Say it.”

Forcing yourself to swallow, you shook your head.

“Don’t be scared, say it,” he coaxed, pressing his lips lightly to yours before pulling back just as quickly. “Do you want me to rub your clit?”

You held his gaze for a moment before looking away, nodding your head slightly.

“Mhm mhm,” he vocalized as his thumbs began rubbing your nipples, which hardened under his touch. “You know you have to _say_ it.”

You squirmed in frustration, and he his hands gripped yours again. The loss of touch made you groan, and he waited patiently above you.

“Please, sir” you whispered, not wanting to say it twice, “please touch my clit.”

He moaned his approval, grasping your knees and spreading your legs. He moved between them, and one hand dipped between your legs. He teased you for a second, his fingertips hovering just over your pussy, closing the gap a moment later and rubbing firm circles on your clit.

You cursed yourself as your hips bucked up into his hand; he smirked before swatting your cunt lightly.

“I’m in charge here,” he murmured, a mocking dangerousness to his voice. His hand returned a moment later, thumb rubbing your clit while the rest of his fingers drifted down. One teased your entrance, his eyes watching yours.

You realized he was waiting for something after a moment, and you sighed heavily in frustration, glaring at the ceiling. “Please,” you whispered painfully.

“Please what?” he asked, hand between your leg pausing. “Do you want a finger inside you?”

Your brows knit together, and you nodded desperately. “Yes,” you breathed, “please.”

He resumed rubbing your clit, sliding his middle finger inside you. Unlike yours, his digits were long and thick, and you whimpered softly at the intrusion. It felt good, being rubbed like this, your walls immediately gripping his finger.

“So fucking needy,” he murmured, leaning back to look between your legs.

You blushed.

“And so fucking pretty,” he added, as though reading your thoughts. You were about to tell him to get out of your head when he leaned down, sealing your mouth with his. He worked his finger in and out of you faster, sliding his tongue between your lips. You opened slightly, too desperate for touch to refuse; he claimed your mouth, tongue sliding over yours, exploring your mouth. It felt like he was penetrating you twice, and he moaned at the thought.

A second finger pressed into you, sliding easily into your wetness.

“Are you going to be a good little girl and take my cock?” he asked, breathing heavily as he worked the two fingers in and out, picking up speed and rubbing your cunt more desperately.

Your eyes rolled back a little, and you nodded quickly.

He was too distracted now to argue for verbal responses, his mouth kissing up your neck to your ear.

“You’re going to take my cock? Get me off, let me shoot my load in your tight little pussy?”

You moaned and nodded, grinding against his hand in desperation. But then it was gone, and he was smiling.

“Beg,” he commanded, leaning over you. He had pulled his shorts down; in your periphery, you saw quick flicks of his wrist—he was stroking his cock.

Embarrassment spread over your features, and he shook his head.

“Don’t over-think,” he said breathily, working his cock harder. “You belong here, with me. You belong to me. Nothing you say should embarrass you.”

“Please,” you whimpered, pushing your hips up. _Stop it_. “Please.” _Don’t say this_. “Please, I need you.” The voice in your head screamed at you, but you squashed it, body too desperate to listen to reason.

He stopped, the tip of his cock pressing low between your lips before you had finished the words. “Perfect little slut,” he groaned approvingly. He stretched out over your body, pulling your knees up around his waist, settling his lips by your ear. Then he snapped his hips up, and your need was replaced with something warm and thick.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hands fisting in your hair. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

Your walls gripped around him, and he pushed the rest of his length in slowly, teasing your nerve endings.

“But you won’t be when I’m done with you,” he growled once he had buried himself, pulling out just as slowly before shoving back in.

Another moan escaped your lips as your body jerked up and against his, his hands dropping to grip your shoulders. He pulled you up and against him in time with his thrusts, which quickly picked up.

“Fuck, little girl, you’re taking my cock so well.” He started pounding into you, seemingly just as desperate as you’d been. “Are you going to make me cum in your tight little pussy?” he panted in your ear.

Your walls tightened around his cock at the lewdness of his words, making you squirm under him.

“Shit, I think you are,” he growled, pelvis angling up into yours with every thrust. His sweat mingled with yours as your chests met, all of his energy directed on pounding between your legs.

“Are you ready to be my cumslut?” he whispered in your ear, voice tinged with desperation. He was close.

“I want to be your cumslut,” you repeated, voice just as desperate, pulsing around his length.

He grunted and shoved himself as far as he could go; he collapsed on you, cock twitching, warmth pooling deep inside you. You did your best to milk his cock, a free hand daring to run up his back. Warm skin rubbed against yours, rippling slightly here and there with his musculature. Closing your eyes, you imagined you could draw him close—that he wasn’t actually your captor, but a friend.

When he finally pulled out, he seemed to do so with regret.

“Go use the refresher,” he said simply. He rolled over onto his back, eyes closed.

Pushing yourself up on shaky legs, you made your way to the refresher. The soreness between your legs turned to throbbing as you peed, then wiped his cum from between your legs. You ran warm water and wet a hand towel, using it to clean yourself before returning to bed.

You tiptoed back into the room, hearing shallow breathing coming from the bed. You tried to climb in delicately, but a large hand closed around your wrist and tugged you so your back was against a broad chest. Arms wrapped around you; soon your head was nuzzled into a neck. Soft breathing came from above you, becoming more peaceful with every breath.

A mass-murderer was cuddling you to sleep.

 

 

 


	11. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water."

_Heavy boots crunched the ground beneath you as you walked, screams echoing through your ears as the fire blazed. You could feel its heat as two stormtroopers approached, shoving a family to their knees in front of you. The faceless figures begged for their lives; you raised an arm, slicing through the air and ending them with a quick stroke of red. Everything went black; soon you could smell only the scent of burning flesh permeating the air. Smoke choked your breath from you, and a feeling of dread swelled in your chest. You dropped to your knees, a tall figure rising above you, stealing the last of your breath as you writhed on the ground in pain…_

You woke with a start, gasping for breath. You pushed yourself up on your hands as slowly as you could manage, not wanting to wake the still-sleeping man next to you. Panicked thoughts pounded through your head, and you fought to catch your breath.

Those weren’t your boots, wasn’t your stride length; that wasn’t your body writhing on the ground.

It was _his_.

Terror coursed through your veins; how could you be having such vivid dreams through his eyes? Something wasn’t right, something was _really wrong_ …

Brown eyes met yours; he had pushed himself up in bed, woken up by your strong emotions. _Shit_. You forgot he could sense them.

You gulped the panic down and forced yourself to swallow, catching your breath.

“Bad dream,” you muttered stupidly

You did your best to focus on the feelings of confusion and terror, shoving the images you had seen out of your mind: you didn’t want him to know you had seen _his_ dreams. He stared for a long moment, seemingly searching your eyes for something. Then he simply nodded and wiped a bead of sweat from his own brow, lying back down in bed.

“Go back to sleep,” he ordered, a vague hint of annoyance in his voice. He acted like you had interrupted something—like he was a parent whose sleep had been interrupted by a child’s nightmare.

You obeyed quickly, wishing you could sink into the sheets and become invisible. You forced yourself to think vague, vapid thoughts—the kind you might if truly trying to sleep. Slowly, you heard his breathing return to a shallow state behind you, and you breathed a small breath of relief.

You shifted slightly in bed, bringing your knees to your chest. Careful not to rouse your emotions too much, you pondered over what had happened; could you have sensed his thoughts, like he could sense yours? When you had woken up, you were still cuddled up against him—maybe the touch had something to do with it. Maybe he had been reading your mind when he fell asleep, and it had left a door to his own mind open. You didn’t know, and as you laid your head down to fall asleep, you hoped you wouldn’t have to find out.

When you awoke, it was to gloved hands lifting you out of bed. He had already dressed, standing before you in full garb sans helmet. He set you down on the floor and scowled at your look of protest.

“Little slaves don’t belong in their masters’ beds,” he said as though you should have already known.

_Slaves._

You shot him a small look of insubordination. He rose to his full height, looking down at you, slight annoyance etched across his face again.

“Be good,” he reprimanded, moving towards the door. “Order food if you want it.” He gestured to the datapad that rested on the nightstand. His helmet flew into his outstretched hand; he pulled it on and left, leaving you in silence.

You jumped when the blaster door slammed shut. _Dammit._ You did want food; going on a hunger strike wasn’t going to achieve anything—he’d already proven so. Standing on shaky legs, you were at least grateful he hadn’t tied you to his bed again. You walked over to the stand, picking up the pad; your thumb brushed the ‘on’ switch on its side, and it sprang to life.

It seemed to somehow know you weren’t Kylo Ren—the main features remained locked, the food option the only one that wasn’t greyed out. You tapped it hesitantly, almost incredulously, and a list of options filled the screen.

_Holy. Shit._

You weren’t sure you had ever even thought about this many foods, let alone been able to choose from them. Your mouth watered, and excitement bubbled up in your stomach—but just as quickly, it died. Your hand faltered, and you considered setting the pad down: this was all because of _him_. Because of _his_ wealth. And you knew where that wealth came from—nowhere good.

Your stomach growled in time with your moral dilemma. Cursing it, you brought the pad back to your face again, biting down on a nail. You thumbed through the options, noting that the pad would let you add multiple dishes to your order; you wondered briefly if you could really have whatever you wanted, or if the system would stop you from ordering too many things, or if—

 _Stop over-thinking_.

His voice seemed to cut across your thoughts, and you flinched. Suddenly, you understood; if you weren’t allowed multiple dishes, it would’ve stopped you already. _He_ would’ve stopped you, just like he set rules and limits for you everywhere else. Your face grew hot, and anger shot through you—you were being forced to live in a pretty little box of his construction; the only freedoms you had were freedoms he _allowed_.

Another growl of your stomach ended your existential crisis, and you added a few options to your order list. Scrambled eggs. Sausage. Sides of greens and fruit. There were fancier options, too; some of them contained all these things and more—you wondered vaguely if you should get a sausage, cheese, and spinach omelet instead. There were other things, too, some bearing names you didn’t even understand. _Crepes_. _Eggs Benedict_. Something called ‘Hollandaise sauce’, which you had the option to add or remove.

Tears crept into your eyes. You were disgusted at being kept like a pet, but you felt even greater disgust that some small part of you felt that you weren’t good enough for him.

You bitterly wiped a tear from your face and chose something called a ‘full breakfast’—it seemed to contain most of the things you wanted, and it stopped you from crying over fucking breakfast meats.

Setting the pad down, you brought your hands to your face, running them through your hair quickly. You sighed, resolving to simply stop thinking for a moment: perhaps his advice wasn’t meant to keep you docile, but sane.

_You’re giving him too much credit._

You sighed heavily again, and walked to the refresher to wash your face.

Your food was delivered by a droid and a stormtrooper, the latter of which kept a blaster trained on you as you took the food; it appeared Ren had told someone you would be alone.

You ate in silence, trying not to enjoy the food too much. You _were_ hungry, though; he had been feeding you, but only off his own plate. It had been days since you’d had a proper meal, and you suspected this was probably intentional. You were already less feisty, more accepting of your place here.

For a long time after you had finished, you stared at the plate. You hated to admit it was good—that you had _liked_ something he had allowed you. You pushed the last remnants of the food with your fork, wondering vaguely why he’d allowed you silverware this time—even a knife, albeit a dull one. You were annoyed he seemed to deem you no longer a threat to yourself; but even as you anger rose within you at the thought, you didn’t raise either utensil to hurt yourself.

No; more than anything, you were annoyed that he was _right_.

When you finally pushed yourself up from the table, you swept up your dishes and took them to the sink; you didn’t want to earn a punishment for leaving a mess. In fact, you didn’t want to earn any punishments—you wondered if you could earn rewards instead. Maybe if you went out of your way to be good, you could bargain for clothes.

The corner of your mouth twitched as you thought, fingers brushing the dusty counters. You had nothing to do; it wouldn’t kill you to do something that would please you both, would it? The rational part of your mind screamed at you as you ran the dish towel once over the counter. A light smattering of dust and dirt stuck to it, and you sighed; it was unlikely he had ever used this kitchen, but maybe you could. Maybe, if you were good, he’d let you have hobbies, a life of your own tucked away in his rooms.

 _So now you want to be a housewife_.

You shoved the too-logical voice out of your head, humming to yourself and setting to work cleaning the counters. You’d had to do this in the brothel, too; it was an escape for you then, just as it was now. Making things clean made you feel happier—just being in a nicer environment brought you a strange sense of relief. You explored his quarters with curiosity, flitting carefully through a stack of papers next to a chair, reading the labels of the soaps and shampoos. Little reminders that he, too, was human littered the room; in a strange way, they made you feel better. As the hours passed, you almost started to miss him.

You made his bed, careful not to climb onto it— _WHY ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO HIM_ —and hopped into the shower. You felt almost happy as the hot water hit you, palming shampoo and conditioner through your hair slowly, taking your time. Stretching out, you washed every inch of your body, finally feeling clean for the first time in a while. Towels waited on their hangers for you, and you wrapped a too-large one around your body after a vain attempt at drying your hair.

Strolling out into the main living area, you were running your fingers through your hair to straighten it when you heard it—the blaster door code being punched in. Something in your stomach twisted, and suddenly your body felt heavy. You sank to your knees where you were in front of his bed, your own disapproving voice growing louder in your mind.

You felt his eyes on you as soon as he entered; heavy footsteps barely slowing as he walked past.

“Quite the change in attitude,” a cold, mechanical voice said. You flinched; his natural voice was deep, but far warmer—more human. His masked voice sounded nothing similar; you shivered, suddenly feeling naked and stupid. A sigh of relief escaped your lips at the noise of the latches coming undone. Then the same heavy footsteps walked into view, and two gloved fingers lifted your chin.

Your eyes met soft brown ones, and your heart skipped a beat. You always expected something different; someone meaner looking, someone with a cruel expression. But instead, you were met only with the face of a young man—a face you probably would’ve flirted with in the city.

“Relax,” he commanded. For some reason, you listened, sinking a little lower onto your heels. “Eyes on me.”

One gloved hand dipped to the front of your chest, where it pulled the towel off you. You shivered at the cold, feeling his eyes on the front of your body now. His lips seemed to go slack for a moment before he swallowed, eyes returning to yours.

“Open your knees,” he murmured. His voice was softer now: it was a command, but a gentle one, like he was helping you. Your vision swam a little and you obeyed, spreading your knees apart. Cool air hit your pussy, and you shivered again.

He forced himself to swallow, setting his jaw, doing his best to ignore the soft pink lips peeking out from between her legs.

“Hands behind your back,” his voice came again, and you found yourself moving to do as he said. “Grasp your left wrist with your right hand.”

You did, and he stared at you for a long moment. A hungry expression flitted across his face, and there was something else there, too—something more tender. Admiration, maybe.

It was gone a moment later, and he seemed to straighten his back.

“You can greet me like that,” was all he said before turning and walking away.

A wave of disappointment rolled over you; you blinked, shoving it back resentfully.

“Come here,” his voice came to you a moment later. He had seated himself at the table, datapad in hand. He was patting a thigh.

You rose quickly before he could demand something truly terrifying—like you crawl to him—and knelt back down where he indicated, between his legs. You rested your head on his inner thigh where his hand had been, and you were rewarded with a soft sigh from above you.

“I have reading to do,” he murmured, a now-ungloved hand petting your hair. “You should rest.”

You blinked a few times, trying to get comfortable with what was objectively a humiliating position. But, somehow—worst of all—it managed to feel almost caring to you, the way he had you nestled between his legs while he worked. Even if you were on your knees, it felt like there was a silent understanding between you; maybe even a kind of mutual trust.

A shiver interrupted your train of thought, and you saw the datapad move aside in your periphery.

You blinked up at him once before making your plea.

“I’m cold,” you stated, trying to keep the whine out of your voice.

He paused for a moment. Then he leaned forward, undoing the clasp of his cowl, and swept it and its cape around the chair to drape around you. He fastened it  around your neck instead, and went back to reading.

You shivered again—this time from the gesture—pulling the thick fabric around you. It smelled like him, a bitter voice in your head objecting as you almost nuzzled the fabric. _You aren’t supposed to like this_.

But you did, and soon your eyelids fell heavy, lulling you to sleep.


	12. 12

You awoke with a jerk, fingers digging into his calf in your disorientation. Then you jerked again.

“Sorry,” you sputtered, dropping your hand quickly. Panic ran through your veins—until a large hand ran through your hair.

He said nothing, simply pulled you back against his leg. He set the datapad down.

“How long was I asleep?” You swallowed, waiting for a response. “Sir,” you added quickly.

You swore you heard a soft chuckle above you before fingers from his other hand ran down the side of your face.

“Not long,” he reassured. “Maybe a half hour.”

You nodded sleepily, letting your head dip down to his thigh again. Your cheek pressed against something wet, and horror paralyzed you: you’d drooled on him. Embarrassment swept across your face, cheeks burning as you brought your thumb up to rub the spot.

“Sorry.”

This time he chuckled openly, hand still tangling itself in your hair.

“It won’t be the last time you drool on me.”

You froze; there was a _definite_ suggestive edge to his voice now. Your eyes flickered to his, and his lips curled into a small smile. It wasn’t quite a smirk—it didn’t have the same mocking edge. Instead, there was something almost warm; playful. In another life, you would’ve sworn he was flirting with you.

Strong arms looped under yours just then, pulling you up and against his chest. A small noise of surprise slipped out of your lips, which he ignored, backing you into the bed. Your knees caught at the end, and he pushed you gently so you fell back on it. Your mind raced, imagining him pushing up his cowl and spreading your legs—which, a moment later, is exactly what he did. But the familiar zip of his pants didn’t follow; instead, he was the one dropping to his knees.

The first half of your gasp was out of surprise—the second was from pleasure. His mouth had clamped down on your clit, tongue licking over your nub in flat strokes. Your hand had almost made it to his hair before one of his closed around it instead, holding your wrist down.

“I’m in charge,” he reminded, tongue flicking over your clit in teasing strokes. A moan escaped your lips—traitorous—and he smirked against your cunt, tonguing lightly at your entrance.

“You know,” he murmured, pulling away from you slightly, “some cultures have dessert before dinner. I never understood that; I think now I might.”

You panted as he spoke, amusement dancing on his features. Your hips shifted up, accompanied by a soft whine, frustration building with every second he withheld his touch.

“The next time I suck your cock I’m going to give a long preamble in between,” you spat. But you blanched just as quickly, bravery fading faster than it came.

He simply laughed between your legs, nuzzling one of your thighs.

“No, you won’t,” he murmured, planting a kiss on your clit. “I’ll shove myself down your throat long before you can finish a speech.”

You opened your mouth to wish all kinds of terrible things on him, but he clamped his mouth down again, silencing you. Your lips formed a soft _o_ as he sucked on your clit, grazing it very slightly with his teeth; not enough to hurt, but enough to force you to shiver in his arms.

You felt him smile against you, strong hands grasping your waist and pulling you towards him. Your hips bucked up as his tongue threatened your entrance, but he pulled away.

“Such a greedy little thing.”

You shot him daggers. His smile grew, and you felt a strange brushing sensation in your head. “You will keep your hips still for me,” he murmured, every word as factual as the last.

“I will keep my hips still for you,” you felt yourself saying, your own voice sounding somehow disembodied and foreign. He nodded between your legs, tongue digging between your folds again, the pad of one large thumb rubbing your clit.

“You filthy little slut,” he surfaced after a moment, no contempt in his voice despite the harshness of the words. “You greet me on your knees, talk about sucking my cock.” He flicked your clit with his forefinger. “You want this, don’t you?”

You nodded quickly out of desperation for his mouth.

But he didn’t go back to your clit; instead, he let you suffer, hooking your knees over his shoulders, teasing you with his breath. You heard this zip of his pants, and a moment later the familiar jerking of his arm confirmed that he was stroking himself.

“Tell me how desperate you are for me,” he moaned at you, licking the inside of a thigh.

You whined, biting a lip in protest.

“Come on,” he panted breathily, the slick sounds of him pleasuring himself cutting through the tension, “I know you want this.”

You blinked back tears of frustration, drawing a ragged breath. “Please,” you managed to say, feeling the heat of his breath near your cunt. “Please don’t stop,” you begged, voice cracking on the last word.

“Don’t stop what?” he asked, dipping his mouth again. It felt like a new kind of cruelty, the way he teased you. “Don’t stop this?” He licked over your clit, drawing out firm patterns, making you squirm.

“Please,” you moaned, hands fisting in his sheets.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, tongue returning to your clit. You felt his thumbs spread you open as he stimulated you, a large finger pressing into your entrance.

You groaned loudly as it pushed into you, which only seemed to encourage him. He worked it in and out of you quickly, your juices slicking him up, making indecent sounds. He worked your clit faster, finding a quick rhythm that made you wriggle under him.

“Please,” you moaned, eyes filling with tears as heat pooled in your belly.

“Please what?” he asked, a second finger filling you.

“Please.” You could only repeat the word; it was all you knew how to say now as he stroked inside you, tongue working you to orgasm.

“Do you want to cum, little whore?” He planted a kiss on your mound.

You nodded breathlessly, eyes pleading with him. His brown ones stared back—almost like they were looking for something—and he latched his mouth back onto your clit a moment later.

“You may.”

He had given his permission; you sighed in relief, a moan escaping your lips as he twisted his fingers inside you, hitting something deep.

The world seemed to explode around you, clouding your vision; you vaguely heard yourself yell something, felt him prying your legs apart wider to keep you from pulling them together. And his mouth—it was still there, tonguing hard patterns around your clit, working its way inside your entrance a moment later.

“You’re sick,” you muttered, jaw going a little slack as you came down from your orgasm. He smirked, pulling his fingers out with a soft pop. He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve; then he leaned over your body and pressed his fingers into your mouth.

You gagged around them at the thought of tasting yourself—but he was insistent, rubbing along your tongue. He forced you to swallow, a sweet musky taste filling your mouth, warm and thick between your lips. It wasn’t bad, but you twisted your face regardless.

He rolled his eyes, tugging off his belt.

“You’re dramatic. And a liar.” He slapped the sides of your ass lightly. “Not even a good one.”

His pants dropped, and he crossed his arms, tugging off his tunic and undershirt as one. He grasped you by the waist and pushed you up the bed, following with one knee, then the other, until he was leaning over you. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, and you took a deep breath. He’d fucked you before, but this felt different somehow. Intimate. Personal.

Brown eyes found yours, and he almost seemed to wink. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, spreading your legs, “I feel it too.”

The head of his cock found your entrance, and his hands grasped yours; he laced his fingers between yours, holding your hands down by the sides of your head. You felt a pressure between your legs, and he slipped into you with a mutual groan.

“You know what I think about all day?” he breathed down at you, pressing his hips deeper. “What I think about when I’m on the bridge, listening to Hux and Phasma drone on?”

It sounded like he was just spouting gibberish words now.

“I think about this,” he grunted through thrusts, face twisting in a primal sort of way. “Coming home, fucking your tight little cunt.”

_Home._

It echoed in your head, his thrusts rocking your body. Somehow, it seemed to rock you into him. You started to burn where your bodies met, a soreness growing between your legs—but then he’d fill it a second later, eliminating it for a moment and replacing it with fullness.

He was pounding hard now, goal transparent. His breathing became labored, and you panted up at him, meeting his thrusts.

“I think about you—“ he was cut off by the twitching of his cock inside you; he came, hard, his body weight pressing you into the bed as you gasped for breath beneath him.

Your mind raced as he filled you with cum.

 _I think about you_.

It had been the first part of a sentence—right? But he thought about _you_.

He seemed to press you into the bed forever. As the seconds ticked by, a feeling crept up into your belly, radiating into your shoulders. You flinched; something felt strange. Awkward.

He seemed to feel it too, pulling out unceremoniously a moment later and striding to the refresher without a word. You lay crumpled and messy on his bed, palming the silky sheets underneath you. They felt smooth and comforting on your skin, and you decided to soak in the moment, stretching your legs out. You yawned, opening your eyes again only when you sensed him walking back into the room. He tossed a small hand towel onto your stomach as he walked past, not pausing to glance at you.

You scowled slightly, wiping his cum from between your legs before using the refresher yourself. When you emerged, he continued paying you no attention; he sat at the dining table, sipping a cup of water and staring at his datapad. He had gotten dressed, a pair of boxers and an undershirt framing his body.

You cracked your jaw bravely and leaned against the wall dividing the bedroom from the kitchen area. He looked up with a tired expression, almost as if challenging you to step out of line.

The edges of your lips twitched, threatening you with a frown. You shoved the feeling back, looking away for a brief second.

“Can I have clothes?” you asked, voice smaller than you would’ve liked, eyes downcast. You crossed your arms without noticing.

“Why?” he asked, crossing his own arms—probably _not_ subconsciously—and leaning back in his chair.

You stared at your toes, wiggling them once. “I feel…” _Exposed_. _Indecent_. _Humiliated_. “…like it would be nice.”

“Nice,” he repeated, voice hollow.

You nodded, stealing a glance at him before diverting your eyes quickly.

He sighed, stomping over to his dresser, rifling through it angrily. “Here,” he said, shoving the green sweater from before into your hands. “You can wear this tonight. I don’t like it anyway.”

He took his seat at the table again, seemingly eager to shrug you off.

You tugged the sweater over your head quickly, basking in the warmth it generated as it fell to your thighs. When you looked up, the anger hadn’t faded from his face. You forced yourself to swallow, mouth going dry, and bit the corner of your lip.

“Did I do something wrong, back there?” you asked, gesturing to the bed—you made sure to keep your voice level, respectful.

He glanced up at you, setting the pad down again. His eyes bored into yours, and you flinched; heat radiated across your face, and suddenly you weren’t sure you remembered how to breathe.

“I don’t think so,” he said cryptically, turning back to his work.

“You ‘don’t think so’?” you echoed, confusion tingeing your voice.

“I don’t think so.”

He offered no further explanation, and you weren’t stupid enough to insist on it.


	13. 13

You weren’t quite sure how long you had been standing, back against the divider wall. You stared at the floor—he didn’t acknowledge you, you didn’t acknowledge him. Soon you felt your toes going numb, and you slid down to sit on the ground.

You could feel the heat of his gaze on you for a moment, but it flashed away just as quickly. There was no gentle coaxing for you to come to him; not now. Silence fell heavy on your shoulders and you closed your eyes for a while. You pretended you were resting against a tree in the forest—the cold, hard ground beneath you one of the rocks you used to perch on. It was almost as if you could hear the soft rustling of leaves nearby, or a bird in the distance. But they weren’t there—not really—and your stomach twisted as you acknowledged reality.

You stared forward for a few moments, eyes crossing at the stark darkness of the walls.

“I didn’t thank you for the clothing,” you nearly whispered a moment later, almost more to yourself than to him. Your voice threatened to break; you cleared your throat, turning your head to look at him.

His eyes met yours, peering over his pad. You searched them like he searched yours, but nothing swam forward—if he felt anything, he didn’t show it.

“I’m sorry.” You looked down at your hands and set your jaw. “Thank you.”

Little tears swam in your eyes—it felt like you were giving in, thanking him. And yet, somehow, it felt like the right thing to do. It felt  _kind_ , as if he was even capable of appreciating kindness.

You felt his eyes leave you after a moment; silence fell again, thick and heavy in your throat. Heat crossed your face, cheeks almost burning in embarrassment at his complete lack of response. You choked back the tears that had been forming, anger rising in your chest.

“Why do you hate me?” you asked, slumping back against the wall, feeling defeated. You turned your head to look at him, watching his thumb play at the side of the pad, hitting the 'off' switch. He set it aside, a soft sigh traveling through him. He was frustrated—you could tell—but he managed to restrain it.

“I don’t hate you,” he said simply.  You waited for something more, but nothing came. Anger boiled over within you—he acted like he didn’t owe you anything at all, let alone an explanation.

“Then why do you act like it,” you hissed, more statement than question. He stood; you watched his feet approach through blurry eyes, tears slipping out of your waterline and down your cheeks.

A warm hand clutched under your chin, bringing your eyes up to his.

“Poor child,” he murmured, a genuine kind of sympathy in his voice. “So lost.” You huffed and sniffled back your tears as though you were above being touched by him. “Begging me for comfort; unwilling to accept when I give it.” His thumb brushed your cheek before he dropped his hand away. “You’re the only one who feels hatred here,” he finished, both accusatory and reassuring in one.

He left you where you were, crumpled on the floor. You continued crying, feeling pathetic as he walked out of sight—to the refresher, you assumed wrongly. When he stepped back into view, he pressed your bear down into your hands.

“Stop crying,” he started, squatting down to level with you. There was a harder edge in his voice now. “Sit at the table when you’re ready to behave yourself. Dinner will be here soon.”

“I’m not a child,” you hissed, rage flaring within your ribcage. You threw the bear hard across the room; it slammed against the opposite wall and bounced off, coming to rest on the ground nearby.

He smirked knowingly as he straightened up.

“No, you’re the picture of maturity.”

He let the words burn a few seconds longer before walking away, this time disappearing into the refresher.

You shot all kinds of silent curse words at him, especially furious that he dared to be  _right_. He had called you a child—and here you were, throwing a tantrum on the floor. It added shame and embarrassment to the mix right alongside the rage. Despite that, you couldn’t stop; it wouldn’t feel right to stop. He was holding you captive, playing with your emotions—you didn’t know what to feel anymore.

He emerged after a few minutes, issuing a disappointed sigh when he found you still weeping on the floor. He stepped over you and took his place at the table, serving droids entering his quarters only a few seconds later. You heard only bits of what they said as you cried—you caught an “excuse me” and a “how rude” among the robotic babble, too occupied in your own self-pity to move aside.

You only bothered to look up when you heard the soft rumble of a stomach—not yours, you realized quickly. You blinked up at his figure through confused eyes, watching as he picked up a fork and began eating. It was another slap in the face to you; another reminder that he was human.  _Hungry_.

“Didn’t you eat today?” you asked, sniffling pathetically and tucking a stray bit of hair behind your ear.

“I was busy.”

“You should make time to eat. Once a day isn’t enough.”

He leaned back in his chair, a strange expression on his face.

“You should eat before your food gets cold,” he said, cutting across your in-depth analysis of his expression.

“I’m busy," you echoed stubbornly.

He snorted, an amused smirk crossing his face. “Eat,” he repeated—much less of a suggestion this time—pointing to your dish.

Something small twisted in your stomach; he’d ordered separate food for you—and it must've been before you’d started giving him trouble, as he hadn’t touched the datapad since. You forced yourself to swallow, pushing yourself up and sitting down in the chair across from him. Your eyes dipped to your bowl; it was some kind of pasta, tossed in a buttery-looking sauce along with various vegetables. Then your eyes flicked to his; the same, but with chicken—a larger portion overall.

“I need protein,” he said, drowning out the sound of your jealousy. He seemed to sense it. “Want some?” He cut a piece, stabbing it with his fork.

You knew what came next; though your mouth ran dry, you nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Something glimmered behind his eyes, and he pulled out the chair to your left—his right. His fingers curled, gesturing for you to change seats. You shivered slightly as you stood and walked around the table, that uncomfortable sense of intimacy creeping into your belly.

A wave of relief rolled over you as he simply handed you his fork. You returned it quickly, eager to forget he was capable of  _sharing_. The feeling ebbed and flowed; when it receded, it was to that same awkwardness from before.

“Aren’t you going to tell me about your day,” you managed to choke out, desperate to break the silence.

He finished chewing and seemed to lean back in his chair a little.

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do, at a dinner?” You stumbled over the words, stabbing your own food and shoving it in your mouth to prevent more nonsense from flowing forth.

“I…” your eyes hopped to his as he began to actually answer. He looked thoughtful for a few silent moments, then spoke again. “We’re looking for a droid.”

You swallowed. “What?”

“Not one of our own,” he clarified, seemingly reading your mind again—you wished he would stop that. “A Resistance droid, we think.”

“The Resistance is real?” you exclaimed before thinking, sounding a lot more excited than was good for you.

He scowled, a warning shot fired in your direction. “Unfortunately.”

You ate in silence for a few more moments, thinking over the new information. “Why are you looking for it?” you asked carefully, trying not to sound too invested in any answer he might give—just conversational and polite.

“We’re looking for someone.” He seemed to give intentionally short answers; enough to make some semblance of conversation, but not enough to reveal real information.

Nor enough to make you feel important, you realized, flinching.

“Who might that be?” you barely dared to breathe.

He set down his fork now, setting his jaw. He looked angry—maybe not at you, though you saw some frustration there—but at  _someone_.  

“Luke Skywalker,” he breathed, teeth clenched.

“He’s real too?” you asked through a smile, which fell  _much_  quicker than it came; you had the strong urge to clap your own hand over your mouth. His eyes jumped to yours just as quickly, fury burning within them.

He leaned into you threateningly, fingers wrapping around your wrist and tugging you closer to him. “Careful, little girl,” he breathed, voice low. “You’re dangerously close to treason.”

Tears swam in your eyes again, though you managed to blink them back.

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. “I only know about him from stories told in Tavuu. They’re probably fake. I don’t know that much about Galactic history—“

His fingers had fallen away from your wrist, holding up the other to quiet you. Leaning back in his chair again, he took a deep breath. “Tell me what else you know.”

You felt a slight brush at the back of your head, and words flowed freely from your mouth. It seemed silly to hide things from him, despite the fear pounding through you. “I know about Palpatine. He became the Emperor. He killed his Master.” He gave a small, stiff nod in acknowledgement. “He took an apprentice of his own. Vader. They built up the Empire, made weapons. The 'Death Star'. But the Rebellion fought back, bringing the Empire down.” He nodded again, more stiffly. “Somehow, Vader managed to have two children.” He visibly tensed. “Luke,” the fire burned in his eyes, “And a princess in the Republic, Leia.”

The pressure in the back of your head was suddenly gone, and you slumped forward a little, gasping for breath. He had forced your mind open—why, you didn’t know. None of this could be new information to him; at most, it was remedial history. You had only ever picked up bits and pieces of what you were sure most people knew. But his reaction to your last words was clear and visceral; fury had risen in his eyes at ‘Luke’, and something stronger flared in him at ‘Leia’. When you’d said it, a wave of stress seemed to radiate off him and slam against you. He didn’t like that you knew about these people—especially her.

“I’m sorry, I only wanted—“ you started.

“Be quiet,” he snapped harshly, standing and pacing a few steps forward. He turned on his heel. “I never want to hear you say—no,  _think_ —anything positive about him, or her, ever again.”

“Why?” you murmured before you could stop yourself, pushing yourself against the back of your chair, wishing you could get away.

He took a step towards you.

“Because they’re enemies of the First Order.” His voice contained that same order—an order that you stop so much as  _thinking_  about something. It made you angry: his confidence that he had the right to command you in such a way.

“Good thing I’m not a part of the First Order,” you hissed back, fingernails digging into the armrests of the chair.

You had fucked up. You had really fucked up. You knew it the instant his face seemed to clear of any emotion—the minute he drew up to his full height. He approached you, deathly silent, and leaned down so his face was level with yours.

“Is that so?” he asked softly— _too_  softly.

You shook your head  _no_  violently, the word spilling out of your mouth like a desperate prayer, but his expression didn’t change. There was a white-hot kind of flame behind his eyes and a terrifying resolve on his face.

“You will wait here. Silently,” he added, and that familiar tingle sprang into the back of your head. Your body complied even while your mind screamed, watching him pull on clothes in your periphery. He stood in front of you a few moments later fully dressed, cold helmet hiding the only part of him that made you think twice about wishing him death. Strong, gloved hands wrapped around your wrists, pulling you to your feet as the compulsion faded.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you choked desperately through panicked tears as he pulled you out through the blaster door. He marched you down cold, dark hallways, people around you clearing quickly. The addition of a crying, screaming girl in Kylo Ren’s arms seemed to affect no one—no one stepped forward to help you, simply scurried out of his way.

“You’re needed,” you heard him say to someone you couldn’t see. Your captor led you down the hall a bit further, shoving you into a room—a room that looked like a torture chamber.

“Please don’t,” you screamed, tears completely clouding your vision as he strapped you to something cold and unyielding. “Please,” you begged, “I want to live. I’m sorry. I want to live—“

A gloved thumb wiped your tears with surprising gentleness. “Hush,” the mechanical voice of his visor spoke. “This won’t hurt. You’re going to be fine.”

You searched his mask for any sign of a lie, but you couldn’t tell; it stared back at you as cold and emotionless as ever.

“I’m not lying,” he answered, apparently listening to your thoughts again. “Calm down.” It sounded _almost_ reassuring.

Just then, a large man in a black uniform walked into the room. He held something in his right hand as he neared you, pushing a metal tray closer. Your mouth ran dry; on it, a heavy metal object rested, its red buttons glowing around a small datapad. You weren’t sure what it was—other than nothing good.

“Please don’t,” you begged again, almost louder this time. You pulled hard against your restraints, pleading with the man who stood next to you, his visor pointed in your direction. “Please don’t.”

“It won’t hurt,” he repeated calmly, gloved fingers stroking the side of your face.

“What would you like, sir?” the man in front of you asked.

“She needs to be fingerprinted,” your captor spoke simply as if going about routine, “and enrolled into the First Order personnel files.”

The man nodded, drawing the machine closer to you; you screamed louder, desperate to pull your limbs out of their metal restraints—

“You will cooperate,” a static voice said, though no hint of compulsion lit up his words. You tried to calm yourself, breathily heavily; you would be okay. You knew who you were; you had to keep going. Even gloved, the press of his hand against yours felt oddly warm. It felt almost comforting, distracting you from the loss of identity as he lifted each finger to the datapad of the machine, forcing the pads of your fingers down so that they scanned.

Then the machine spit out the thing you’d been dreading—a small slip of paper, bearing only a few characters: KT-0010.

Your lips parted in a silent scream, only vaguely hearing your captor say something to the man.

“…and the contract,” you caught at the end. The spare man stepped aside, your captor pulling up a seat beside you. The screen of the machine showed something new, now; a contract swearing service and allegiance to the First Order. A soft-tipped pen was forced into your hand, your fingers compelled to close around it.

“I hate you!” you screamed, tears welling in your eyes. You pulled hard at your restraints again; he stared at you, jaw tensing, letting you battle against the cool metal. He knew you wouldn’t escape—and you knew it too. You stopped after a few moments to catch your breath, the inevitable defeat only making you cry harder.

He released one hand—your left—and brought it to his lips, kissing over your fingers.

He murmured, an almost-reassuring tone in his voice, “You’re a good girl.”

You flinched, bile rising in your throat; turning your head away, you spit on the ground as you felt him move his hand over yours, making you sign your official ‘name’ on the screen. He sighed softly when it was done, taking the same pen into his own hand.

“So lucky, to have me as your sponsor.” A strange sound emanated from the helmet, as though he had clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

A few moments later, he pulled away, standing and moving away from your field of vision.

There, scrawled in a perfect script—his own handwriting—was ‘Kylo Ren’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The closing 'scene' of this chapter has been edited to the fingerprinting one for Reasons(tm).


	14. 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I write things like this; I must not have been held enough as a child. 
> 
> Anyway, here we are. Chapter 14, or, 'Wherein Reader tries to power bottom and/or Kylo Ren is Adam Sackler'

He ignored your crying as he dressed, releasing your restraints when his helmet was secured. Hooking his arm under your knees, he held you to his chest. This time, you didn’t resist; you curled into the warmth, pressing the palm of a hand against him.

Soon you felt stares burning into you—apparently the sight of Kylo Ren bridal carrying a girl down the hallways _was_ rare. The feeling faded as you neared his quarters, blaster door sliding aside for him. He set you down on his bed.

Returning to your side a moment later, he handed you your food.

“We haven’t been gone long.”

You turned up your nose, laying back in bed. A tear rolled from the corner of your eye down to your ear; you shook your head.

“Not optional,” he said, climbing in the other side with his own. “Eat it.”

Pushing yourself up with your good hand, you leaned against the headboard. Your head slumped back as you stabbed some pasta with your fork.

He sighed. “You’ll like it, some day,” he murmured, fingers tracing the skin around the insignia. “You’re part of something now. The First Order can offer you safety.”

As comforting as he may have thought them, his words did nothing to stop your tears. He raised his thumbs, wiping them away, just as he’d done while you were getting fingerprinted.

“Shhh,” he whispered, pulling your head into his chest. He set his food aside; you could feel his gaze watching as your hands clutched around your own bowl, knuckles going white. His fingers pried them away.

“Tell me about your day,” you echoed brokenly.

He sighed heavily, running his fingertips through your hair. “Finish eating,” was all he said. waiting for you to obey. You raised your fork to your mouth, a rogue tear slipping down your cheek. When he was satisfied that you were going to eat, he picked up his own meal. You ate in relative silence, the only sound the thrumming of his heart.

He took your bowl when you finished, lifting himself up and striding into the kitchen. “Lay down,” he called back to you before rounding the corner. You heard the soft clinking of glasses, followed by running water. You tried to imagine it; the Commander of the First Order doing dishes. It seemed absurd—but then, so did everything. You sighed and  slipped down the headboard and pulled the covers up, as though they could protect you.

You opened your eyes slightly when you felt him peering down at you.

“Would you like a treat?” he asked; your eyes hovered over the glass of wine he held in his hand. You wanted nothing more than to get drunk and pass out; it seemed like a sweet relief.

“Not that,” he said, having noticed your gaze. Disappointment flowed through you. Instead, he held out a dish of berries—grappaberries. They were native to Chandrila: a snack from home. _His_ home. You took them, hands dwarfed by his much larger ones as you took the bowl.

“Why can’t I have that,” you asked quietly, nodding towards his glass. You popped a berry into your mouth, trying to ignore his gesture entirely.

“Because you’re a child,” he answered almost haughtily before bringing it to his own lips again.

“Only when it suits you.”

The color that flashed across his face told you your words had hit their target. He looked away for a moment, swallowing hard.

“I want some,” you dared to say; the fingerprinting had—somehow—emboldened you. They had, inadvertently, proven to you that you weren’t as expendable as he liked to imply. He _wanted_ you to be a part of the First Order; here, with him.

“I don’t care what you want,” he spat back bitterly. You could tell you’d hit a nerve. You smirked to yourself, choosing another berry with caricature difficulty.

“That’s a lie, isn’t it? _Master_ ,” you emphasized with a sickly sweetness.  

Dark brown eyes flicked to yours, daring you to say another word. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, dragging it down.

“That mouth,” he breathed, visibly struggling to restrain his anger—or maybe it was frustration—“is going to get you into trouble.”

You smiled and closed your lips around his thumb before he could pull away; you, too, issued a dare with your eyes. He had opened his mouth to say something—you assumed it wasn’t good, given the look on his face—but you raised your arm, palming him through his pants.

You didn’t know someone could set a drink down so fast. He grasped your wrists tight, shoving you down into the mattress.

“Do you _want_ to get pounded out? Is that it?” He seemed to grip you tighter; it wasn’t lust so much as anger. He seemed to force your gaze to match him, searching deep for something—it hurt this time, something sharp tearing into your mind. You wriggled in his grasp, though he held you down. “Ah,” his voice said a moment later, low and deep and dangerously soft again. “You do.”

He pulled away, sitting back on his heels where he straddled your legs. “Because it would make me easier to hate,” he growled, reading verbatim from your mind.

You shivered—the look on his face told you you’d just earned your second punishment of the day. You’d dared to speak his secret out loud, provoked him because you knew you could. There would be a price.

“You think you’re in control here?” he breathed; you shook your head furiously, but you knew it was too late.

His fingers popped the two remaining berries into his mouth, glaring down at you. A confusing expression met your eyes—there was definite rage in his, but something else, too; a kind of fire. A dangerous one.

“You think I care about you?” he asked, low and dangerous as before.

You stared, open-mouthed in panic, unsure how to answer him—but before you could, his mouth sealed over yours. He hooked an elbow behind your head, preventing you from pulling away, as he slipped his other hand between your legs. Three large fingers rubbed your clit—much more aggressive than you would’ve liked—as his tongue explored your mouth, exchanging his spit for yours.

That uncomfortable feeling of intimacy returned, stronger than ever, and now undeniable. You squirmed beneath him; it felt like a sick make-out session.

He pulled away slightly, face hovering a few inches from yours. A string of saliva connected you.

“You think I care about you?” he repeated, lips returning to yours a second later. It was a kiss—but it was hard and urgent, a fight for dominance. He was winning.

His fingers rubbed hard circles into your clit, making you moan into his mouth. He angled his hand differently a moment later, the pad of his thumb pushing into your clit as his fingers swirled around your entrance.

“Beg,” he ordered, drawing back slightly.

You opened your mouth to form a ‘please’ but he denied you the chance, lips pressing hard onto yours.

 _’Pluhhh’_ was the only plea you managed to make, unable to form proper words with his tongue dominating yours.  He ignored the sounds escaping your lips, fingers trailing back up to your clit; he rubbed hard again, making you press your hips against him.

The tug of war continued this way as the minutes ticked by. When he broke the seal of his mouth on yours, he barely let you breathe before resuming. You started to feel light-headed, started to stop resisting his hand, which was slick with your juices now. Thick fingers rubbed between your folds, teasing the entrance of your pussy, though he never dipped one in.

A small bead of sweat rolled down your forehead, clit burning for him. You ached to be filled; he continued to deny you, drowning out your pleas and protests.

When a thumb clamped down on the artery in your neck and squeezed, he bent to whisper in your ear. “Do you want to cum?” he asked, brushing his lips against you.

You nodded desperately—submissively, even—and he smiled. He pulled both hands away, drawing up to lean over you. The hand that had been rubbing your clit smacked your cunt— _hard_.

You jumped, and he crawled up your body. “Too bad,” he murmured, unzipping his pants.

His hard cock sprang forward, precum dripping from his foreskin. He pulled it back and began stroking himself a moment later, the head of his cock red and angry from the lack of attention. Breathy groans came from overhead, his eyes boring into yours.

You opened your mouth and strained to edge closer to him before a warm hand gripped your forehead, pushing you back into the pillows.

“Close your shit, that’s not what this is,” he panted, fist pumping his cock methodically. “You don’t deserve to taste my cock.”

You recoiled; he might as well have slapped your face. You stared back into his eyes until you felt something hot hit your cheek; squeezing your eyes shut, you heard him grunting overhead as his cum landed on your face in strips.

He got up after a moment, closing the door to the refresher. You laid there silently, staring at the ceiling; you could cry, but there was no point—you had played with fire and gotten burned.

His figure emerged after a few moments, warm washcloth in hand. He wiped his cum off and tossed it aside. Then he chugged the rest of his wine, eyes refusing to leave yours, and climbed into bed.

“Don’t pick fights with me, little girl,” a still-distinctly-threatening voice said. “You won’t win.”

He let tension hang in the air for a few more moments before lying down himself.

“I’ll wake you up when your bandage needs to be changed,” he said simply, lights turning themselves off— _probably thanks to one of his telepathic commands. Psycho._

As silence fell, you couldn’t help but roll on your side to look at him.

“Aren’t you going to tell me the answer?” you asked quietly.

His jaw tensed, and he seemed to shrug. He shook his head.

“I don’t need to.”


	15. 15

_“There has been an awakening. Have you felt it?”_

He stood before his master, head bowed. Sweat lay heavy on his brow, the beating of his heart hard. There was another: a force-sensitive.

“Yes.”

A leather-gloved hand clenched at his side. He would annihilate the spare as he had annihilated the rest.

 _“There's something more. The droid we seek is aboard the_ Millennium Falcon _,”_ Supreme Leader Snoke began. The hologram of his master shifted; the figure seemed to lean back before continuing, slower now, _“in the hands of your father, Han Solo.”_

His mouth ran dry, heart skipping a beat beneath his chest. He wished to silence it as he had silenced many before. He set his jaw firmly, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“He means nothing to me,” he breathed, head bowing further.

_“Even you, Master of the Knights of Ren, have never faced such a test.”_

He blinked up at his Master, something uncomfortable growing in the pit of his belly—insecurity. Shame, perhaps.

“By the grace of your training, I will not be seduced,” he assured himself more than the cloaked figure before him.

His Master paused, looming over the room with a thick, palpable presence. The air seemed to be seeping out of the room, suffocating the man more with every second he spent within it.

_“And the girl?”_

Something caught in his throat.

“Supreme Leader?” he asked questioningly. Hesitantly.

_“The girl. Will you be seduced?”_

The towering figure seemed to sneer, playing with prey before a slaughter.

The man spoke quickly, thick vocoder drowning out the unsteadiness in his voice. “She, too, means nothing to me,” he said. “A whore,” he spat, hatred lighting up the word.

 _“A whore,”_ the Supreme Leader repeated after a moment, voice hollow. Cynical. _“You possess curious feelings for a_ whore _.”_

He blinked up at his master, who cut across him before he could issue a response.

 _“I perceive a problem. You have_ compassion _for her.”_ There was an unmistakable disgust in the older one’s voice when it uttered the word.

He flinched behind his helmet, hands balling into tight fists at his sides. He swallowed hard.

“I will stomp it out.”

Something seemed to shift in the air around him.

 _“We shall see,”_ a dark whisper filled the room, _“we shall see.”_

The hologram faded a moment later.

He gasped for breath as though oxygen had only just entered the room. Turning on one heel, he hurried out of the makeshift throne room. When the elevator reached its destination, he stormed down the hall with purpose.

“Sir—” Lieutenant Mitaka interrupted his thoughts.

The man shot his hand out, sending the other flying across the way. Mitaka hit the far wall and slid down.

“Not now,” Ren ordered sharply, heavy footsteps carrying him further down the hallway and out of sight.

He had a singular goal as he marched down the dark corridors, sending unsuspecting officers and troopers scattering. As he approached his quarters, a strange heat rose in his cheat. It spread across his face, a burning sensation lingering on his features. He sighed heavily, punching in the code to his rooms with unnecessary force.

The girl sat up in bed when he entered, eyes wide and alarmed. She seemed to force herself to swallow, following his footsteps.

“Sir—“ the stormtrooper guarding her started.

“Take her. Wait outside,” he commanded, silencing the trooper.

The trooper exited quickly, grasping the girl by her upper arm and pulling her out of bed.

Burdened footsteps made their way to the black chair that rested next to the coffee table. He sat; the mangled mask of his grandfather stared back at him.

The man rested his head in his hands for a few moments, temples pounding. “Forgive me,” he murmured, glancing up only slightly. His eyes went to the indent of her body in bed, crumpled sheets still pooled around where she had been only minutes before, innocent. Innocent and afraid. “I feel it again: the pull to the light. Supreme Leader senses it!”

He practically hissed the last words, frustration mounting. It was the closest he had been to prayer. He was begging for guidance. His head bowed again, thoughts still pounding between his ears.

“Show me again, the power of the darkness, and I will let nothing stand in our way.” He forced a breath into his lungs. “Show me, grandfather, and I will finish what you started.”

~

You stood awkwardly in the hall, as if banished from a classroom for being unruly. You tried to pull down the sweater to cover more of your thighs; goosebumps rose from the cool air. Your pride was healing from the fingerprinting incident. You'd never acknowledged the new 'name'; you were at least grateful he hadn't begun to call you by it, either. You recalled the memory bitterly, wishing you could've burned the little paper with your gaze alone. Folding your arms, your eyes flicked over the stormtrooper in front of you. His blaster was trained on you; you’d considered running, but imagined your captor had probably authorized non-lethal shots. Instead, you stood where you were, leaning up against the wall.

When the blaster door flew open, you could’ve sworn you saw the trooper jump along with you. You straightened up in sync with each other, your captor leaning into the hall.

“You’re no longer needed,” he dismissed the trooper, gloved hand closing quickly around a single wrist.

He seemed to fling you into the room, causing you to stumble a few paces forward. You caught yourself and turned to face him defensively.

His expression was unreadable through the helmet, but waves of negative emotion radiated towards you; whatever his mood, it wasn’t good.

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked, trying your hardest to sound cooperative, vulnerable.

No response greeted you, though you thought you saw a fist clench tighter at his side. You backed up a few places; the back of your knees hit the bed, but you didn’t dare sit on it without permission. He seemed to survey you for a few moments. You couldn’t see them, but somehow you could feel the heat of his eyes.

Then he raised his hands, and his thumbs hit the latches of his helmet. He set it down on the coffee table, eyes trained on you like you knew they would be. You forced yourself to swallow; he seemed to do the same.

“Are you—”

“Don’t speak out of turn,” he snapped, turning and walking into the kitchen area. He poured himself a glass of water.

You blanched; he had never much restricted speech before. You kept your mouth shut—you had already taken a week’s worth of punishments. You didn’t want to earn any more.

“I shouldn’t even have you in my quarters,” he spat a moment later, seemingly more to himself than to you. The color poured out of you even further. You bit your lip, tears welling again in your eyes. You didn’t know what you had done wrong this time; you’d barely done anything at all today.

He dropped into a chair at the table, and your feet carried you towards him. You knelt as obediently as you could manage without hating yourself fully, looking up at him with concern in your eyes.

He seemed to think that was the worst thing you could have done. He swallowed a sip of water, tension etched across his features. He glanced up, then away—eyes flitting anywhere that wasn’t to you.

But finally, inevitably, yours met his. They seemed to lock there, unspoken questions burning between you. His lips twitched; it looked like he was pressing them together, gulping down emotion.

You took a breath and learned into his knee, closing your eyes; you didn’t want to see his reaction if it was going to be bad. The silence that fell seemed to freeze the room. You couldn’t even hear his breathing as you waited for a reaction, an acknowledgement—anything.

Then you felt fingers softly—hesitantly—brush the back of your hair.

You placed your open palm lightly on his calf, nuzzling his leg. His fingers worked their way into your hair less subtly then, almost pulling you closer. You were the one on your knees, yet you felt—somehow—like you had the power in that moment; you were bringing him comfort.

You waited for a few moments until warmth had crept into both of you. Then you turned slightly, daring to look up at him. “Are you okay?”

He regarded you curiously for a few moments, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “I thought I told you not to speak out of turn,” he murmured, voice altogether lacking threat.

“I’m sorry,” you said obediently; you knew he wasn’t truly angry—just going through the motions. He gave a stiff nod, fingers stroking the side of your face.

“Can I do anything?” you asked, genuine in your offer.

His eyes searched yours for a moment, and his lips curled down into a little frown of denial.

“No.”


	16. 16

“Go lay down.”

It was an order, but the hardness in his voice sounded artificial. You glanced up, rising to your feet. Soft sheets greeted you when you climbed into the bed, smooth against your skin, capturing warmth. It was one of the better things he’d commanded you to do.

You peeped over the thickness of the comforter after a few minutes had passed. He still sat in the chair, head in his hands, crouched over. He wasn’t joining you.

The ceiling stared back, the quiet in the room slowly growing defeating.

“When I was little,” you started, daring to stretch out, “when I worked at the factory—” _Well, you didn’t really_ work _at the factory, you were enslaved there._

You cleared your throat.

“One day I escaped. The supervisor had left the room to sign for a shipment, and I just ran. Like, just made a break for it.” You took a breath, not bothering to look at him. “Mostly the other kids thought I was crazy, but a few came with me. We ran until we couldn’t anymore; then we walked for a while instead. We finally stopped by this cliff—the cliff at the edge of the city. We picked some berries nearby and just sat there, looking down at the jungle. We got caught eventually, got sent back, got our asses handed to us for a long time over it. But in those few moments, I mean… it was worth it. Like, it’s terrible sometimes, but there are these perfect life moments, and that’s enough.”

Heat spread over your face as the silence crept back into the air. The squeak of a chair on the metal floor followed a moment later before his figure loomed over you.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and rolled on your side, lips twitching as you watched yourself reach out and grasp the covers. You peeled them back. He looked down at you, something unreadable etched on his face.

Then he unzipped his tunic, holding your gaze and tossing it and his cowl aside. You ignored the uncomfortable pounding in your chest as his hands crossed in front of him, grasping either side of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He tossed it down with his belt before taking a step forward—somehow simultaneously menacing and timid. Boots were kicked off a moment later and he paused, jaw bobbing for a small moment as if he had swallowed hard.

_I won’t tell if you won’t._

The bed shifted to accommodate his weight, a peppered chest coming to rest next to you. Your eyes traced over the small marks; you couldn’t remember noticing them before. A large vein poked out from his right shoulder, working its way down his arm, pulsing with his heartbeat.

He sighed heavily, wrenching your eyes away from his body.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked, deep voice thick with something that made you flinch. Fear constricted your heart; your mouth ran dry.

“Seeing as you kidnapped and brought me here, I thought you’d have some idea.”   

Any other day, you were sure he would’ve beaten you—but today he simply hardened his stare, losing himself deeper in thought.

“I thought I did,” he said quietly, solemn in his response.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling again. If your life was in danger, it was at least not an immediate threat. But there was _something_ —a problem. A problem with keeping you that he didn’t seem to feel before.

You turned your head after a few quiet moments, eyes studying his face. He looked more angular than before—tired, and worried, and something else. _Afraid_. He looked starved.

Your hand closed around his before you could stop it.

He sighed. “Stupid girl." You flinched, though he didn’t pull his hand away. “You’re young and naïve. You don’t know anything about me.”

Your lip quivered, little beads of tears forming in your eyes. He huffed again as though disgusted by your emotion. Your eyes drifted to where your hands met; he objected but had done nothing to swat you away. The skin there was warm on yours; you always expected cold, yet he defied you every time. Instead, the contact felt almost comforting, even if unreciprocated.

“You’re right,” you murmured. His eyes flicked to yours. “I don’t. But I’ll listen to anything you tell me.”

He looked away and swallowed hard again, face twisting in part anger and part something-else. There was clear conflict written on his features—and whatever it was about, you were _not_ making it easier.  

Leaning into him, you nuzzled his chest. Warm skin met yours again; your eyelashes fluttered a bit as you heard his heart beat, daring to start weaving your fingers between his.

Silence fell heavy and defeating, threatening to crush you under its weight. Then he started to sit up, pulling his hand out of yours. This was it: it was over. He didn’t want this; didn’t want you to press up against him or say nice things. He was going to resolve whatever problem he had. You were going to get kil—

A long arm had reached across you. He’d grabbed a pillow from above you and placed it, cool but soft, against your back.  It supported you when you rolled back, keeping you propped against him comfortably. Your lips parted, eyes watching him tense two fingers—the lights went off, obeying his silent command, one large hand pushing the sweater up and palming the curve of your waist.

It was your turn to swallow hard.

Hesitantly, you placed a hand on his chest in return. When silence fell again, it wasn’t suffocating: there was almost something peaceful about it. Your fingers brushed over a small dip in his chest, thumb circling back to feel it.

“I broke my sternum a while ago,” he mumbled, voice rumbling through the chest you pressed close to. Apparently, he was in your head again.

“I wish you wouldn’t read my mind,” you protested,

He scoffed lightly. “Minds aren't books, you don't read them.”

You didn’t bother to look up at him in your confusion; it was too dark, and somehow you could see his expression without looking. You could _sense_ him.  

“You can only see what’s presented,” he volunteered. “Memories, feelings—they can be false. Planted. Obviously, yours aren't. But it's not like reading something off a page--especially not when you’re practically screaming your thoughts at me.”

“’Screaming my thoughts at you’?” This time, confusion clearly colored your voice.

He seemed to nod his head somewhere above you. “Your thoughts are so loud. Inescapable.”

He had said it before. _Your thoughts are loud to me, and clear. It was part of why I chose you…_

“What is it usually like, then?” you found yourself asking, too curious to restrain yourself.

He made a small noise of thought, thumb absentmindedly stroking the dip of your waist. It was almost a caress; you were ashamed that you leaned into it.

“Usually you have to go looking; you have to focus and want to think what they think or feel what they feel. But not with you…” he trailed off, chewing on his lip.

“Why am I different?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t I like to know.”

“How did you break it?” you asked suddenly, one finger tracing between the little marks on his chest.

“Hm?”

“Your sternum.”

“Speeder accident.”

The timbre of his voice sent a little shiver down your spine; there was something odd and unique in it. It wasn't the voice of a tyrant--and yet it was.

You sucked on the corner of your lip. “I’m not sure I can imagine you on a speeder.” A smile played on your lips just thinking about it.

No such smile was reflected in his voice. “It was a long time ago,” he said stiffly.

You nodded compliantly against his chest—an assurance you wouldn’t press further. He seemed to relax a little; his other arm snaked under your shoulders, pulling you against him so that he held you.

“How do you do it? You know, make things float,” you blubbered stupidly. It felt safe in the moment to ask a question like this, though you still held your breath nervously. His touch was as tender as it ever had been, but it was clearer than ever that you were cuddled up to something dangerous. Unstable.

“’Float’,” he echoed. You could _hear_ him smirk. “The force,” he replied simply after a moment.

You waited for more; when he volunteered nothing, you pulled a hand out from under the covers and held it out like he did sometimes—but nothing flew to you.

He chuckled. “It doesn’t work like that. You have to be force-sensitive.”

“How’s that?”

“You’re… just born with it,” he murmured quietly.

“Oh.” You must have sounded dejected, because he chuckled again. “But, like, _how_? Like what if you just wanted to hold your hand out?”

“Mhm,” he smiled against your forehead. “You have to picture what you want and channel an emotion to get it—like fuel.”

You blinked. That was much more technical than you’d imagined. You gave a nod and pressed against his chest again, closing your eyes. Something small fluttered in your belly when he patted you approvingly.

_You’re snuggling the commander of the First Order you crazy traitorous b—_

You killed the thought, shoving it down and watching it drown. This felt _nice_. That’s what mattered.

You winced slightly, remembering the contract he'd forced you to sign. Of course it didn't mean anything to _you—_ but being forced to sign something so against your ideals had, somewhat, injured your pride and feeling of integrity. “You’ve nice handwriting,” you murmured, grasping onto a small detail you'd overlooked _._ It felt personal, somehow, as if seeing his handwriting had helped you know him better.

“Mhm,” he murmured again, brushing against your hair. “I used to have a calligraphy set.”

You paused, considering the new information as you stared at your hand. Calligraphy. He didn’t seem like the type. “I would’ve thought you would be the guy to start fight clubs and set things on fire.”

He made a small noise against the top of your head. “I think I did that, too.”

Something warm and foreign and strange flowed between you. You fell quiet, burying both shoulders beneath the covers again. His held you, fingers occasionally brushing down to your hip or up your back. The head above you tilted back to rest on a pillow, his breath slowly becoming shallow.

“People are never as one dimensional as we want them to be,” you whispered at last, eyelids growing heavy. They fluttered closed as he answered.

“No,” he said quietly, “they’re not.”


	17. 17

You woke up to a body shifting behind you. It seemed to freeze a moment later.

“Welcome back, little whore,” a low voice murmured into your ear. Something in it made you, too, freeze; whatever gentleness he had held for you before was gone. There would be no more caresses or hushed pillow talk. You shivered as he pressed into your back; the sweat on your skin made the sweater stick to you. With a grimace, you scooted your head away from the cold, damp spot on the pillow; you had drooled in your sleep.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” you choked out, strangling the words a little, not daring to sound too assertive.

You closed your eyes and tried to ignore his presence. This was all just a bad dream; you were really lying in a comfy bed with someone you liked, somewhere far away from here. A low growl left the lips behind you.

“Is that it? You want to pretend I’m your fucking boyfriend?” The cruel edge in his voice was streaked with something else—it almost sounded like he was mocking you.

You blinked back some small tears, pulling a fistful of covers close to your chest defensively. You didn’t move away from him; it was sick, but somehow his touch still felt protective if you pretended hard enough. You could almost want it.

Large fingers reached up and brushed your hair aside with mock tenderness, tucking the strands behind your ear. He leaned down and kissed the lobe lightly, then the skin of your neck beneath. You shivered again, turning your head away from him; you breathed into your pillow, the heat of your breath warming the fabric for an instant before fading away.

“Is that it,” he whispered to you, fingertips brushing your arm. He ignored your disobedience, kissing the back of your neck instead. His touch was gentle—but if anything, it was _too_ gentle. You knew this was a sick kind of roleplay, insincere and dangerous. “Do you want me to be _tender_? Tell you I _love_ you?” He said the words with thinly veiled disgust.

A small sob wracked your body; you squeezed your eyes shut to dam your tears. He made a soft clicking noise with his tongue, planting soft kisses down your neck. “Poor girl,” he breathed, sucking on a patch of skin there, “you do.”

The contact made you shudder; his stubble rubbed against you, soft lips pressed against your neck. It was too much. He broke the seal of his mouth on you with a light pop, saliva quickly growing cold on your skin. There would be a mark in the morning.

“That’s ok,” he murmured with false reassurance, placing one hand on your hip. He placed the other on your shoulder, rolling you gently onto your back. “We can make believe.”

The sweater rode up to your waist; your lower back settled onto the warm swath of bed where he had been lying. You blinked up at him a few times, hot tears sliding down the side of your face.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, a threatening softness in his voice.

Something constricted in your chest. You nodded. He seemed to set his jaw, looking away for a second. He exhaled hotly through his noise, making a small noise of frustration. You gulped and looked away, too, staring into the mirror on the closet doors. Your reflection stared back at you, broken and desperate—begging your captor to treat you with kindness, if not only as roleplay.

You watched as his own reflection bent down, soft lips pressing against your neck a moment later. He planted a simple kiss; you closed your eyes again. It was easier to pretend that way.

“I missed you,” he moaned, planting chaste little kisses up to your cheek. It sounded almost convincing; if you closed your eyes tighter, you were sure you could believe it. He brushed over your lips, hands wrapping lightly around your waist. “It was such a long day. I worked so hard.” He brought one hand up to your face, stroking a cheek with his thumb. His mouth dipped to your neck, sucking the skin there into his mouth. You squirmed a little under him—your neck had always been sensitive, and his touch was shooting directly to your clit. He moaned in time with you. “I ate the lunch you packed for me; it only made me miss you more.”

You get out a groan as he bit you lightly. You almost wanted him to shut up, but he had committed to his role now. It was too late. One hand raised itself to rub his back—he paused when you touched him, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed your lips to yours. You willed yourself to buy into his story, pretended that this man loved and cared for you. You kissed him back.

He pulled away after a few moments—you felt him shift above you, thighs straddling yours. You kept your eyes shut, only feeling him as he seemed to spread out above you, leather pants sheathing the growing erection that pressed into your belly.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered to you, urgency coloring his voice. It was low and deep and suggested honey; his hands caressed up your sides, taking hold of the sweater. He pulled it up your body and over your head; you heard the fabric crumple somewhere nearby a moment later. “So beautiful,” he murmured, mouth sealing around a breast.

A moan escaped your lips and you pressed up against his hips; it wasn’t so wrong to want someone if you could imagine they loved you. He responded too, pressing his pelvis into yours. Shifting, he looped a forearm under one knee, repeating the process with the other. He moved to kneel between your legs, spreading you open, drawing your calves up to wrap around his waist.

You felt open and vulnerable—and safe, you convinced yourself. He put gentle thrusts to you as he kissed your chest.

“You missed me too,” he moaned, desire clear in his voice now. He cupped your breasts, placing a kiss on your lips. “I’m glad I’m home with you.”

You knew it was a lie; it was all a lie. There was no home or partnership or love here. But you drowned every little voice of dissent that dared raise its voice in your mind.

Your hands rubbed up his back and fisted in his hair; he grunted, pressing against you a little harder. His breathing had picked up, harder and ragged against your neck. “I love you,” he whispered.

Your heart stopped; when it beat again, it felt like it belonged to someone else’s body. You felt a small trickle between your legs and clenched around his waist.

He exhaled in the crook of your neck. He lifted his hips; you could feel his hands fumbling with the zipper of his pants. You heard him unzip a moment later, then the sound of leather getting pushed down. Skin replaced it, pressed flush up against you. Something wet trailed up and along your belly—the tip of his cock.

A hungry groan escaped his lips as he rubbed up against you.

“We don’t use condoms because we’re trying for a baby,” he said suddenly, feeding you more backstory as he stimulated himself. You found yourself nodding stupidly; you would believe anything he said in this moment, too desperate to feel warm and safe. “You’ll be such a great mother,” he moaned absurdly, nuzzling against your ear. A hand looped under your shoulder, the other moving to grasp his cock.

You kept your legs spread willingly, pressing up into the man’s body.

_He loves you. He loves you. He loves you._

“I love you,” he murmured, pressing into your heat. You let out strangled noises in time with each other, his hips keeping yours pinned down. He worked his length into you slowly—gently, like a loving boyfriend would.

“Grnmm,” he fought to repress what you suspected as a curse word. “You’re perfect.” He snapped his hips once, thrusting up into you. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

He chased his breath, seated inside you. Your hands gripped his shoulders; his did the same, pulling you down in time with his thrusts so you met his cock. You lost track of the kisses and the grunts escaping his lips, too lost in your own pleasure. Your eyes swam under their lids, no longer squeezed shut; you were happy to believe in fantasy now.

“Fuck,” he groaned, a few harder thrusts following. “I love you.”

And then he said your name.

It was like cold water on your face; your eyes flew open. You flinched—noticeably. He slowed to a stop.

“Shit,” he growled. Tears were already forming; your reflection stared back at you, sad and pathetic, splayed underneath your captor. “Don’t cry,” he growled. It was a command, an order; there was no reassurance or comfort in his voice now.

Rough thrusting followed; he was staring ahead, refusing to look at you. You sniffled loudly, trying to catch your breath between tears. A large hand covered your face, covering most of your features.

“Fucking stop it,” he hissed, anger clear in his voice. You choked back a sob—then you felt it: he was losing his erection.

“Stop. Crying.” The words were unmistakable in their harshness. You tried to repress the tears, but you couldn’t; even harder sobs took hold of your body then. He slapped your face; the other hand had flown to squeeze the base of his cock. He thrust deftly into you a few more times before collapsing, panting loudly over your shoulder. His cock slipped out of you, soft.

“Fuck,” he growled.

This was bad. Very bad. You could feel the rage and frustration radiating off him, dark and deep and saturated. It clouded the air around you and made you choke, suffocating under its weight. You squeezed your eyes shut again, directing all your willpower to stop crying. The tears slowed, empty sobs shaking your frame underneath him.

He rose to his feet, lightsaber flying into an outstretched hand. You curled up into a ball, one arm reaching up to defend yourself, though you knew it would be in vain. He stayed deathly still for a moment before a red glow lit up the room.

Violent, guttural screams followed as he began destroying one of the panels of the wall.


	18. 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaps between chapters may grow a little bit starting this week. The boyfriend is coming into town for Valentine's Day, so that kills this upcoming weekend (when I normally write). University is also picking up a lot, with the first round of midterms beginning in a week or two. 
> 
> But I'll try to keep this reasonably current. At worst, probably a week or so between chapters.

You could hear the embers of his blade crackling; every time he smashed the pillar of light into the wall, bright sparks lit up the room. Heat radiated from the damage, a piece of sheet metal sliding down and off the wall. You could see where one of the panels deformed under the heat, bending and misshapen. It was just as broken as you were; a small part of you wished he would turn the blade on you.

He sliced the wall a few more times before he started heaving from the exertion. Just as suddenly as he had ignited it, the beam of red light disappeared. You heard him zip his pants again, clicking the saber to his side. He stood still for a few more moments, back to you. Then he strode across the room, picking up the remaining items of his clothing from the floor. You watched him pull one over his head, then the other; watching him dress to leave. Even as the scent of burning metal irritated your nose, a pang of loneliness hit your stomach. He was leaving.

You didn’t need to be told to get out of bed. He clicked his helmet into place as your feet touched the cool ground. A shiver ran down your body; you wrapped your arms around yourself, standing awkwardly by the side of the bed. He looked at you, and you looked at him, and you realized something: you didn’t know him. You didn’t know the man in the visor, in those robes. Just because you’d tasted his cum or spit or could name a meal he liked—that didn’t mean anything. That wasn’t a connection; anyone could have that. Really knowing someone was something else. It was a completely different thing.

You followed the heavy footsteps with your eyes as they moved across the floor and exited his quarters.

Relief flooded through you when he left. It felt like the time you’d injured yourself on the factory floor and got pumped with pain meds; it burned going into your veins and you could almost feel it traveling through you.

You shivered again, awareness seeping back into your brain. You gulped once, glancing back at the damage he’d done to the wall. Another panel hung by a thread, dangling on a diagonal from its rightful spot. _That’s what he’s going to do to you. Break you and leave you hanging on by a thread._

Sighing, your eyes flicked to the mirror. Your feet carried you to it slowly; you raised a hand to your face, the girl in the mirror doing the same. There were purple splotches on your neck, a light bite mark visible above your collar bone. You traced your fingers over it; she did, too. The girl’s hair was tussled, face flushed and slightly red on one side from where he’d slapped her.

He was right: you looked like a whore.

It was too much; you turned away, refusing to cry again. You closed your eyes and sighed heavily, trying to focus enough to clear your mind. No relief came until a bold idea hit you. You turned and walked around the divider wall into the kitchen area. Heart pumping in your chest, you glanced around frenetically. Where did he keep it? You’d seen him come in here to pour a glass before.

_Ah. There._

Your eyes found the bottles of liquor, stacked neatly on a small countertop rack in the corner. Your body seemed to go on autopilot, nearing the rack slowly. You knew you weren’t allowed; but did you care? One hand reached out slowly, fingers wrapping around the neck of a bottle. You paused for a moment, forcing yourself to swallow.

_You aren’t allowed. You aren’t allowed. Stop._

You narrowed your eyes at the obedient voices and pulled the bottle out decisively. The label seemed to glare up at you, somehow sensing you were unworthy. It looked expensive. Quality. _Good._

Your hands scrambled to open drawers, racing against time to find a bottle opener before you talked yourself out of this. Finally, on your fifth try, you found it. The silver glimmer of the device seemed to call to you, tempting you to commit a sin. You snatched it up, driving it into the cork without a second thought. A few quick twists and it was loose enough to pull out of the bottleneck— _pop_.

The distinct smell of alcohol hit you, fruity notes filling the air. You pressed your nose closer to the bottle and sniffed curiously. Back in the city, ales were king; wine was for the rich. But then, he was the rich, wasn’t he? You sneered as you picked the bottle up, carrying it into the main area with you.

The cool air hit your naked frame again; you grit your teeth. You didn’t want to put the sweater back on—it smelled like him now. _You_ smelled like him, his sweat drying on your skin. If you spread your legs, you were sure you would smell maleness; you gagged once, shoving the thought out of your head. Snatching up the sweater, you pulled it on—only until you took a shower, you assured yourself.

Your knees swayed beneath you once as you took a swig of the alcohol; there wasn’t time enough for it to have taken effect, but just the act made you feel unstable. Bad; rebellious. You lowered yourself to sit at the end of the bed, much like you used to when he’d tied you there. You grimaced, ashamed of your contradictions—willing to defy him to drink, but too uncomfortable climbing into bed without permission.

You took another bitter swig of wine, trying to silence your conflict. A familiar wall stared back at you, every bolt where you’d left it before. It felt nice, something familiar. You only wished it didn’t have to be in this place; it bothered you that anything here felt comforting. You started counting the bolts again, raising the bottle to your lips. You chugged, forcing the liquid down your throat, desperate to quiet the shame and fear and uncertainty—everything.

The seventeenth rivet stared back at you as you slowly lowered the bottle, coming up for air. It was still half full, but you could feel its affects already; you had barely touched alcohol before and you were much smaller than him. _Kylo_ , your mind supplied, breaking another rule. You’d already had double what you’d seen him have with a meal.

 _Good._ You took another drink.

You grumbled to yourself, eyes flicking to the bear he’d given you. You wondered—drunkenly—what he was playing at. Gentle one moment, rough the next. Caring, then brutal. _You’re doing a pretty shit job of piecing it together._

And then there were the bits and pieces he’d shared about his life: the injury, an old hobby, and something else. _What had he said about the droid?_ You strained to remember, swallowing another sip. He’d forced you to tell him what you knew about galactic history—and he’d gotten especially angry at the end of your spiel. _But what had you said?_ You thrummed your fingers on the hard floor besides you.

 _Mhm, right. Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa._ The names came to you slowly through the thick haze of your drunkenness.

“Why?” you asked out loud to no one. Why had he been so upset? You’d seen rage in his eyes at the mention of Luke, and something different when you’d mentioned Leia. Anger, maybe, but there was something more. Something deeper, rawer. He’d almost looked pained in the moment.

 _But why?_ His emotions seemed disproportionate for a mere politician—even if they had been directed at most hated Senator. Organa was far from it.

Your lip twitched; a distant voice in your mind was screaming something at you—something you’d forgotten. Something relevant. A missing piece of the puzzle. But the fog of the alcohol made it impossible for you to fully form the thought. Frustration coursed through you; you’d meant to dull your thoughts, but this was important. You could feel it. Anger built within you, growing fiery and hot within your ribcage. You trained your eyes on the little sculpture you used to glare at when bored, tied to his bed. _Fucking idiot_ you seethed. _You’re going to get punished_ and _miss out on whatever your subconscious was trying to tell you._ _Goddammit, this was just like yo—_

You froze. You would’ve sworn you just saw the sculpture move an inch across the table.

Queasiness hit you a moment later. _Shit._

You shoved yourself up and ran to the refresher, kneeling at the toilet just in time. You shoved your hair back in vain, vomiting the contents of your stomach into the bowl. Cursing yourself, you rested your tired head on the seat, gagging up more alcohol until dry heaves were all you were left with. You managed to sit up after a few moments; you wiped a tear from your cheek and poured the rest of the bottle into the bowl. Then you reached up and hit the handle, wishing you could flush yourself away, too.

_Fuck. You always make things worse._

You pushed yourself up on shaky knees, clutching the counter for support. Your reflection stared back at you; even more disheveled, still suggesting sex.  Wincing, you touched the largest purple bruise. At least the outline of his teeth was fading.

Your eyes flicked down, refusing to look at yourself any longer. Turning, you reached hesitantly into the shower, turning one of the knobs. Water sprayed out of the showerhead above you, warm and inviting. You grabbed the bar of the door tight, stepping into the shower with one leg, then the other. You stood still for a few moments, making sure you weren’t going to fall; then you slid the door shut behind you.

The water wasn’t quite hot enough, but you didn’t want to turn to adjust it—you felt too unstable on your feet. Instead, you stood still, letting the water hit you. It felt cleansing in more ways than one, washing away the grime and your mistakes. You ran your hands down to your breasts, palming at the dried spit that remained there until it rubbed off. Closing your eyes, you sniffled once and spread your legs; you tried not to think about _him_ as you washed away his sweat—his precum. Resentment grew within you, both directed at him _and_ yourself: you washed away the remnants of your own arousal, too.

You’d already betrayed yourself. You knew it.

His words echoed in your head. _Poor girl._

When he held you, you’d been so quick to accept it—you’d believe any narrative he fed you in bed, because you wanted to. You wanted to enjoy it. You were desperate for company, for companionship, and now he was enough.

You growled low in your throat at the thought, scrubbing your skin roughly without noticing. The patch grew red and sore; you looked down, wincing once before moving on. You palmed some shampoo and conditioner through your hair, grateful at least to be clean again.

As the water poured over your body, you wondered vaguely when he would be back. There wasn’t a clock in his quarters; there was no way of telling time. You usually judged it by his schedule—it was morning when he rolled out of bed, got dressed, and left. Evening when he came back to eat with you, or otherwise make your life harder than it needed to be. You scowled. But today, his schedule had been different; you weren’t sure what time it was now, or how long he’d be gone, or what he was doing. _What_ is _he doing?_

You shoved the thought out of your mind with brutal force. _It doesn’t matter! He doesn’t matter._

_He. Doesn’t. Matter._

You stepped out of the shower when you were done, reaching for the soft, fluffy towel that hung on an adjacent rack. You wrapped it around your body eagerly, reveling in how it stuck to your curves. It caressed you just right—not rough or possessive. If you closed your eyes and imagined hard enough, you were sure you could imagine _this_ was the touch of someone you liked.

Your cheeks glowed red when you finished the thought; you felt foolish. The same foolish girl stared back at you.

_Young and naïve. You don’t know anything about me._

You huffed, sobering up now—vomiting had, at least, helped with that. You walked out of the refresher and into the main quarters. You had to get rid of this bottle before he came ba—

Your feet froze in place then, the rest of you catching up a second later. You stumbled a little, fighting to retain your composure. The man rose from the couch, tall and threatening. He had his mask on, but you didn’t need to see his face; you knew where his eyes were looking.

Your fingers closed tighter around the empty bottle.


	19. 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! One exam Tuesday and another Friday, but should be back to a more regular publishing schedule soon. 
> 
> I'm also vaguely considering switching to a she/he narrator perspective like the bad author I am. Idk.

The man held a gloved hand out, waiting and expectant. The seams of the leather jeered up at you; you pursed your lips.

“If I asked for forgiveness, would you even give it? Or am I set up to fail?” It was an accusation; you glared into the faceless mask, hot little pinpricks forming in your eyes.

A moment of silence passed.

“You can ask for whatever you want,” a mechanical voice replied. Cold and inhuman. Not his.

Scoffing, you turned away, shaking your head. “That’s what I thought.” You sniffled once, swallowing your weakness. “You know that this is your fault?” You’d turned to face him, feet apart, holding your ground. “You act like my life pauses the moment you leave through that door.” You shoved your finger in its direction, furious. “Well it doesn’t,” you hissed. “While you’re doing… whatever it is that you do”—you gestured wildly—“I’m stuck in here. Far from home, and alone. And you don’t give a damn. You just expect me to deal with it, and wait for you. I’m a person; I’m not a fucking pet!” you shrieked, chucking the bottle hard at him.

He flicked a wrist lazily, making the bottle hover before his mask for a moment before dropping it into his waiting hand. He tossed it onto the soft bed before taking a step towards you. “That’s exactly what you are.”

Bitter tears blinded your sight. “A decent owner gives his hamster a wheel,” you spat breathlessly; you dropped to sit on the edge of the bed, permission be damned. Your chest heaved.

He stood silently for a moment, face of his helmet staring straight ahead, ignoring you. Then his thumbs went up, hitting the latches on either side. You watched as boots stepped into your view of the floor, warm leather hooking under your chin. He dragged your eyes to his, deep and brown and human. He showed no signs of anger.

“You can ask for whatever you want,” he repeated. It sounded so much gentler now—a hint rather than an admonishment. You turned up your nose regardless.

He seemed to crack his jaw. “It’s your own fault,” he spoke. You looked back at him, rage flaring in your eyes again. “It’s your own pride that prevents you from being comfortable. You’re being foolish; starving yourself of what you need.”

You swallowed hard, picking at your fingers. “I don’t believe you,” you mumbled tearfully.

“No?” he asked softly. It made you hurt, that he didn’t just scream back at you. He picked something up; you’d neglected to notice it in your fit of emotion. He tossed it onto your lap.

“Clothes,” he said simply, “because you asked.”

He picked up the bottle, self-assured and calm, and walked into the kitchen. You glanced down at the clothes, heart beating harder in your chest. _Shit. Why didn’t he ever make things easy?_

You set it aside, refusing to look at it, and laid down. Spreading out, you closed your eyes. _Anywhere but here_. Maybe the force would save you—beam you to another planet.

The crunch of his boots drew nearer to you; you opened your eyes a moment later. He stood there, surprisingly calm, as though waiting for something.

“Now,” he said quietly, “are you supposed to be on the bed?” You forced yourself to swallow; something about his composure told you that you were _going_ to listen. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows and slid off the end of the bed, clutching the dress he’d brought you. A light, breathable material brushed against your hand, one sleeve bearing the insignia of the First Order. _Of course_.

You stared at his boots, every scuff mark in the same place as before.

“Such a good girl,” his voice came, wrapping around you with a warmth you resented. You hated how the praise felt _good_. Part of you had hoped he would storm in, rip the bottle from your hands, and beat you. Instead, he was the picture of perfect control.

He stepped around you, sitting on the edge of the bed. You watched him over your shoulder; he parted his knees and pointed between them at the ground. Your mind screamed at you, your body moving to obey as if on autopilot. Heat crossed your face, burning at your cheeks.

“Look at me,” he ordered, somehow hard and gentle at once.  Your eyes flicked to his; he held them there, warm fingers hooking underneath your chin. “I think you have something to tell me.”

The edge of your lip quivered; you bit down on it as little tears formed in your eyes again. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, ashamed at how genuine the admission was. This was your captor—your _kidnapper_ —and yet somehow stealing from him, disobeying his rules – it felt wrong. You gasped for a breath. “I – I just – I don’t know what I’m doing.” You buried your head in your hands and sobbed openly.

You heard him sigh above you, sounding more sympathetic than annoyed. A large hand cupped the back of your head, stroking in your hair.

“You don’t need to,” he murmured, pulling you against his leg. You glanced up at him; he brushed away a tear with his other thumb. “I’m in control here,” he said firmly, no shred of doubt in his voice. He said it as confidently as you might say planets were round. “All you have to do is listen to me. Let me make these choices for you; you won’t have any of this stress anymore.”

You shoved the words out of your head quickly, too afraid to hear them. You gripped the dress tight in your hands and closed your eyes. “Are you going to forgive me?” you asked, shocked at the smallness of your own voice. _God, you sound broken_.

A small sigh came from above you. His fingers tapped under your jaw lightly; you looked up at him. “I already have.”

You screamed at yourself—that reassurance should mean _nothing_. It shouldn’t even _be_ reassurance; it should disgust you. Yet, somehow, for some reason, you felt relieved: he wasn’t mad at you.

You watched through blurred vision as he reached into a pocket, fumbling for something.

“Across my lap,” he murmured, pulling the object out.

 _Oh god_ ; it was a long strip of leather. He was going to beat you after all. “I thought you said—” you started to protest, rising on shaky knees.

“Across my lap,” he interrupted, waiting for you to obey. He wore a look that told you he wouldn’t be extending this patience forever.

You complied after a moment, moving to lay across his lap—

Then you got a closer look at the object. It was the wrong dimensions for a whip; too thin for a crop or part of a flogger. And there, at the end—a lock. It glimmered up at you; your lips parted in a silent _o_.

He pulled you down into his lap, his hands curling around your waist to reposition you how he liked.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked quietly.

You forced yourself to swallow. “Yes.”

He let a moment of silence hang heavy in the air. “Do you want it?”

There it was, out in the open; he wasn’t interested in avoiding this moment any longer. You glanced back at the collar.

“I don’t know,” you whispered honestly.

One hand cupped your ass then, working its way up the curve of your hip. “That’s okay,” he murmured. “You don’t have to know yet.” He set it down next to him—next to _you_ —and wrapped the other hand around your throat.

Your heart jolted; you waited for a squeeze that didn’t come. He held his hand there, applying no pressure, only the sensation of something clutched to your throat. His other hand moved lower again, swatting your ass lightly.

“This isn’t a punishment,” he said, voice gentler than you’d heard it before. “Tell me what I just said.”

You furrowed your brow. “’This isn’t a punishment’,” you repeated.

“Good.” He smacked your ass a few more times, harder this time. “Tell me what you are.”

Your heart sank. _Oh,_ that’s _what this is._ Your mind raced to find the right degrading adjective; did he want to hear you call yourself a whore? Or a slut? Maybe something else—

“Stop thinking,” he instructed, brushing some of your hair aside and tucking it behind your ear. He caressed you with his free hand, squeezing where he’d slapped. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

Your vision swam; it took you a few moments to realize the question wasn’t rhetorical. “Yes,” you breathed. You almost believed it.

He murmured his approval, swatting lightly again. “So tell me what you are,” he repeated levelly, soothing your skin after every hit it absorbed.

You almost felt a little drunk; something warm was creeping into your blood as both of his hands gripped you. You had his full attention—and he was telling you that you were _good_. Approval dripped from his voice; you shivered.

“I’m a good girl.”

“That’s right.”

Slowly, static replaced the thoughts between your ears. No worries lingered in your head; you were there, with him – _where you belong_ , something suggested. The voice of dissent became fainter and fainter in your mind until she, too, vanished.

You hardly even noticed when he pushed you onto your back. You blinked up at him, eyes focusing on his lips. They looked so full, so soft—it felt like heaven when he pressed them to yours a moment later, almost as if he’d read your mind.

“Mhm,” was all you managed, a stupid little smile possessing your lips when he pulled away.

He held something up; a familiar glimmer greeted you. “Do you want this?” he asked. It sounded almost like an echo of something he’d asked you earlier; your thoughts felt thick and cloudy, and you couldn’t quite place it—

“Yes,” your voice answered. You did want it; you wanted it more than anything in the world. It was all you could think about—

The cool press of leather against your skin interrupted your sluggish thoughts. You shivered once; you thought you saw him smile before the leather band pulled tight around your neck. He wiggled his pinky between it and your skin, adjusting the fit; a moment later, you heard the soft _clink_ of a lock clicking into place.

_His._

He looked down at the soft little creature on his bed, watching her try to fight the wave of sleepiness that had finally caught up to her. She would be deep in subspace for a little while longer—for now, it was best to let her rest.

He stole one more look as he rose to his feet.

_Mine._


	20. 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure short, frequent chapters are better than longer, infrequent ones. #yolo

You knew what you’d done when your eyelids fluttered open.

You laid still for a moment, drinking in the warmth of the bed. Your body had sunken into the top layer of foam and padding; body heat radiated around you, insulated by the thick, silky sheets. You almost dared to feel safe for a moment, wrapped in your little cocoon—but you knew he waited.

Heavy footsteps crunched their way over to you a moment later, almost as if on cue. You could sense him somehow; you could feel his eyes resting on the back of your head.

“I know you’re awake.”

You bit the inside of your lip and took a deep breath. Surely this was the beginning of a new life, albeit something you’d barely chosen. By now, you knew Kylo Ren to be a master manipulator; pushing and pulling at just the right times, balancing kindness and deprivation, keeping you on edge and confused. He knocked you off balance just as quickly as he promised he would. And now, here you were; your puppeteer prodded you just right into saying the words he wanted to hear. You swallowed against the collar.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad; trying to fight him certainly hadn’t worked. You tried to assure yourself that this was the right choice. It seemed like the only way to survive: to ride his emotional rollercoaster. It came with promises of better treatment, didn’t it? You were tired of fighting him at every turn, knowing you'd lose each time. Maybe giving in for a while was the healthiest thing to do.

You rolled over, slowly, and glanced up. You weren’t sure what you would see. Afraid, even.

Brown eyes stared down at you. Usually you could make out the small flecks of gold that ringed his irises, but the light in the room had been dimmed. Something warm and uncomfortable bubbled within you; _had he turned the lights off for me?_

The brief feeling evaporated just as quickly when you noticed where he was gazing—at the collar resting on your neck. You flinched.

His eyes jumped to yours then, a corner of his mouth twitching. A little hint of amusement clouded his gaze, mixed in with something else – pride, maybe. For a brief second, you considered pretending he was proud of _you._

“Welcome back,” that familiar baritone voice greeted you. “Did you sleep well?”

You groaned internally—you could do without the false politeness. Pursuing your lips, you stared up at the ceiling for a moment. _His rules_. None of the responses you wanted to give would be positively received. You sucked one of your cheeks between your cheek.

“Yes,” you managed to whisper.

You could see tension growing in his body. “You know better,” he scolded with his usual staccato delivery.

You released your cheek with a slight wet pop, letting your head roll back to the side. “Yes,” you answered quietly, agreeing to meet his eyes again, “I did. Thank you… for letting me sleep.” The words came slowly; you struggled not to choke on them.

He waited expectantly for something else—something more. Your lips pulled down into an uncomfortable little frown. “Master,” you finished.

He reached down and stroked the side of your face, making a show of catching his fingers on the collar.

“That’s a good pet,” he murmured, a very slight mocking edge in his voice. It was just restrained enough that you managed to hold back the blush of humiliation.

You squirmed slightly, something hot growing in your chest. You felt your cheeks begin to glow as he asserted his new rights over you—standing beside you, towering over you. Clearing your throat, you asked as passively as you could, “isn’t there something more personal I could call you now?”

The words had come out awkwardly. You bit a lip.

“’Personal’,” he repeated after a moment. “You think I owe you something?”

He traced the edges of the collar with a gloved finger, the drag of leather on your neck making you shiver slightly.

“No,” you said quickly. “Not owe. Just… you said before, about intimacy…”

You swallowed hard and gave up trying to find the words; shame flooded your features, and you turned your head away.

A few silent moments passed, awkwardness crushing your chest. You were sure your self-hatred would suffocate you long before he could ever choke the life out of you. But no blows came; instead, after a few moments, he walked away.

“Get dressed,” he ordered, voice perfectly level and expressionless in that ‘ _of course you’ll obey me’_ kind of way.

You sat up quickly. “Get dressed?”

It was a strange request; he seemed to prefer you naked, denying you any kind of clothing on most days. You were confident it meant nothing good for you—though you weren’t sure staying naked did, either. _I’m fucked_.

“I don’t need you questioning me,” he snapped. After a brief pause, he added, “and don’t make me repeat orders. I won’t do it again.” He looked over his shoulder at you, the warning etched clearly on his face. You gulped, sliding out of bed obediently. You picked up the dress from the floor where it’d been discarded. The gray material was lightweight—almost cheap-feeling. Your heart dropped a little.

Hooking your fingers into the collar of the dress, you pulled it over your head. When you’d done pulling your arms through, you dared to look up and into the mirror. A face you'd once known greeted you. A new addition to your usually-naked frame stuck out; a thin leather band around your neck. You tensed your arms at your sides, resisting the impulse to touch it. You were at least grateful for his taste; it wasn’t excessive. There was no bit, no apparent desire to start chaining you up to everything on the ship. To an untrained eye, it might even pass as a dramatic choker. You could hope. You watched your lips twitch, pressing them together hard to prevent any sound of dissent.

You glanced down at your frame then. It wasn’t such a bad dress, you supposed. It looked like a uniform; it probably was one, you realized, for some lowly First Order servants. Exactly what you were. Smoothing the front over with your hands, your eyes jumped to the First Order insignia on the sleeve. You flinched, the memory of your First Order personnel name rushing back to you. _KT-0010. At least it’s not the worst_.

“I have things to do today,” a mechanical voice remarked suddenly, its snark evident even through the vocoder.

You jumped, mouthing a silent ‘sorry’—the words themselves never fully formed on your lips. He had his helmet on now, the voice speaking to you no longer human. His visor moved to look you from head to toe; drawing nearer, he stepped behind you. You crossed your arms.

“What happens now?” you asked quietly, casting your eyes down to avoid his. You rubbed your arms absentmindedly.

“I lead, and you follow,” the voice said simply, as if obvious—the natural order of the world.

A less-than-helpful description.

You made out a small chuckle, crackling and warped from the vocoder. He bent his obnoxiously fall frame to yours, pressing his mouthpiece against your ear. “You will give me everything I want, and in turn, I will give you everything you need.”

You fought against the urge to pull away from the cool press of the metal against your skin—away from _him_.

“Somehow, I think our definitions of need are different,” you whispered. “Sir,” you added quickly.

He chuckled louder this time; you could almost _hear_ him smirking behind his mask. “I think you’ll find my definition…enlightening.”

Your blood ran cold; little shivers traveled up your arms, making tiny bumps rise. Almost in contradiction, a bolt of energy shot to your clit. Your nostrils flared in time with your frustration.

He pulled away as quickly as he’d leaned in, as if he knew the exact affect he had had.

You swayed a little where you stood, eyes examining the creature behind you. Cold, inhuman. Merciless. You choked on a small sob.

“Are you going to cry all the time?” the artificially-level voice asked.

You sniffed pathetically. “Probably.”

He seemed to sigh; whether out of pity or frustration, there was no way of telling. Then he gripped your wrists, warm leather encircling them in an ironclad bind.

“See?” he said, “Human.”

You glanced at the figure behind you. Part of you—the part of yourself that you hated—noted the warmth in his touch. It noted the way the quilted material of his tunic looked soft, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

You inhaled sharply when he let go, embarrassment quickly coloring your features again.

“Holding so much tension now,” he mocked, “But soon…” He swiped a lock of your hair aside with the back of his hand and an outstretched finger. “Soon you’ll beg me to touch you.”

The little tears turned into hot pinpricks in your eyes; you didn’t doubt him anymore.

The heat of his body pulled away then, footfall making its way towards the door.

“Only a few rules,” he called back—you realized you were to follow, your feet hesitantly carrying you after him in reluctant obedience. “You will stay silent unless spoken to, and you will address me properly. I expect you to at least pretend to be civilized and walk with me without incident. Any foolishness will not be tolerated—and will be punished. I won’t make more concessions for you; you’ve been trained well enough as it is.” He paused, moving his back to you, punching in the keypad combination. The blaster door slid open. “In short, act like you’re worth something.”

You flinched. The leather band seemed to burn around your neck.


	21. 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made a vague attempt at a Pinterest aesthetic board for this fic: https://pin.it/7s2iiuz6aqlouy
> 
> There's also now a Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/2lsivtn9heztapydvsgoky2x6/playlist/1gS5PdRx6oYmMA6EHp5PCh

Your bare feet pitter-pattered against the cool metallic floors of the ship. He hadn’t offered shoes, and you—not yet anxious to press your luck—hadn’t asked. Wincing, the undersides of your feet absorbed the chevron imprints that patterned the sheet metal. His boots were too thick to realize they were even there. Deftly, you wondered how much detail he noticed at all. The troopers, passing on your sides with frightened rigidity (or sometimes even a timid backwards glance)—did he notice them? What about the gawking of officers?

If he did, he didn’t show it.

Such details must surely blur over time. One thing became clearer with every step: the scale of the First Order. He hadn’t lied, you realized, about his importance. Streams of people had filed past you by now, no face the same; yet everyone—everyone—was afraid of Kylo Ren. It showed on their faces (where you could see them) as sure as your own must.

The irony of your situation wasn’t lost on you; not long ago, you might have dreamt of something like this. It was the classic brothel pipe dream—that a singular man would come swooping in to save you. You and your fellow girls— _whores_ —would long for a man to buy your independence. He would be kind and protective, of course; they always were, in your dreams.

_‘Vinna!’ you squealed, hugging your friend. A gaggle of young women surrounded the girl, smiling and giggling, each sharing in the secret. Someone had liked her so much—loved her, he must have—that he’d bought her for himself alone. You’d excitedly helped her pack her meager belongings, staying up late that night to share stories and final goodbyes. The worst was behind her—it must be. You all agreed._

For a long time, you’d curl up and drift asleep to the happy thought of Vinna’s contentedness: kept and cared for, wanting for naught. The most popular client kink, back then, was for “innocence”. You used to think you were an actress in your own right, skillfully weaving a fantastical fiction of naiveite before their very eyes; now you wondered if it had been theatre at all. Perhaps you had only fooled yourself into believing it had been.

Ahead of you, Kylo Ren moved steadfast down the halls, his thick cloak beating around his ankles. What material was that, anyway? Roused from your introspective moment, you scurried along silently to catch up. Despite how much you hated him—and you _did_ hate him—you nonetheless felt the silent pull to obey; to bring him happiness. Maybe he was right—just this once. Maybe there was some kind of connection.

More dark hallways passed by, each a carbon-copy of the last—dark and cold, the mysterious lights of unknown electronics scattered across the walls, vents running along the floors. The man stopped suddenly; you had to dig your toes into the floor to avoid running into his back.

He stood aside, then, and gestured—through an open doorway, you realized. You turned and stepped through it gingerly, allowing your gaze to drift around the circular room. Long columns of light peppered the walls in a geometric pattern, continuing overhead for as far as you could see. A gloved finger, long and quite thicker than your own, hit a button. This was an elevator.

“Sir,” your own timid voice began.

“No,” he cut across you without looking down. “You’ve forgotten a rule.”

You hid your tongue in the roof of your mouth. Had you? You couldn’t remember, letting a small frown weigh heavy on your lips.

“I’m… sorry.” You weren’t sure what he wanted you to say or do, so instead you said and did nothing.

He let an awkward silence hang in the air a few seconds longer, apparently frustrated you couldn’t read his mind like he could read yours.

“‘Master’, ‘Commander’, or ‘Lord’ in public,” he corrected. He was right—he had said it before. You struggled to recall when; had it been days? Weeks? The time you’d spent with him, though you were sure it had been short, already began to blur.

“Mhm,” you acknowledged, suddenly uneasy on your feet. “Yes. Right. Sorry. Um—Master…Ren?”

The brief pause almost made it sound as if you had said his name alone. _Almost_. His helmet tilted down; now he paid you attention, clearly deciding whether this token of vague intimacy should be allowed.

There was a long pause.

“Only in public,” he repeated, the mechanical voice stiffer this time.

You nodded compliantly, though secretly confusion whirled around in your brain. How counter-intuitive, that he should prefer a more personal title around others, but not alone. Why was he so uncomfortable with hearing his name in private—in the safety of his own quarters? Isn’t that where it would make the most sense? You thought his way of thinking was rather opposite. _Really, you should stop trying to understand him altogether_.  

“Well?” he asked expectantly, as if saying ‘weren’t you going to ask me something?’. You had been, but you’d forgotten now.

“I don’t remember.”

A quiet noise made its from through the vocoder; whether it was amusement or annoyance, you’d never find out, as the doors of the elevator opened just then.

Long strides carried him out first, all too eager to escape the uncomfortable exchange. He seemed to, as usual, simply expect your obedience; he cast no backwards glances, apparently confident in your loyalty. Maybe foolishly so, you thought—but then he’d never been lacking in arrogance.

You readied yourself for another half marathon of power walking through the halls, following him like a duckling around another set of hallways. After the second turn, however, the hall yielded to a larger room. Glass panels surrounded it on either side, curved and crystal clear. You reached a hand out, blind to what you were doing; you were staring into the stars, so close you could almost touch them.

“Come.”

He swept into the room without another word, though this time you were slower to follow. Machines were nestled in short little rows and— _oh god_ —there were people. A lot of them. It was maybe then that the power of Kylo Ren became very real to you. The stormtroopers guarding the room seemed to tense, standing up a bit straighter; technicians leapt from their seats, giving small respectful nods in his direction. He walked past it all, as casually as if this had happened a thousand times before. It occurred to you then that it probably had.

Once the people had paid their dues to him, their gaze wandered to you. You felt the heat of each set of eyes on you. They seemed to travel in a circuit; from your own eyes, to the collar around your neck, to the man ahead of you, and back.

You gulped and stared at the floor instead, following only the heavy boots in front of you—until they came to a stop. You took a step forward, the first time that day that you weren’t coerced into doing so; there, in front of you, an unusually large panel of glass revealed the expanse of the universe. It was the only spot in the room without a beeping machine in front of it—a sort of observation point, you realized.

Had he brought you here to feel small and insignificant? You did. Yet something else had awakened within you; something that had you staring out the window in awe. _It’s beautiful_. This time, if you raised a hand, surely you would touch them. The mouthpiece of his helmet drew nearer to your ear; a warm, gloved hand swept gently across one side of your waist. He almost pressed close—you needed him to, wanted him to—when an unfamiliar voice rang out, dumping a bucket of ice water over both of you. “Ren!”

The man behind you turned on his heel only slightly faster than you did. Another man, almost equally tall, took a few haughty steps forward.

“How very like you to think you’re above the rules. Bringing a _pet_ into a restricted area—” he scoffed, his thin lips curling into a sneer. “The bridge, of all places. I mean, _really_.”

 _The bridge? This was the bridge?_ You looked around frantically, a new interest coursing through your veins. _Shit._

Your captor seemed to stare at him for a long moment. Then he turned away, a deliberate snub; you followed his lead, too afraid to meet the eyes of the ginger man. Your captor pressed both hands to your waist as though completely unbothered by the confrontation.

A low, throaty noise came from behind you; soft footsteps approached. The new man—the challenger—paused beside the man whose collar seemed to squeeze around your neck, now a very real-seeming indicator of ownership.

“Be careful, Ren,” he said softly, a delicious threatening tone weaving between the words, “that your personal interests not interfere with orders from leader Snoke.”

_Smoke?_

Fingers curled against your waist before retracting to form two fists. Kylo Ren turned, addressing the nameless man directly. “I’d be happy to tell him about Phasma,” he spat, loud enough for everyone to hear. You flinched; he sounded much more bitter than he ever had with you.

Phasma? Wasn’t that a kind of goop—

“ _Phasma_ ,” the man began slowly, clearly choosing his words carefully, “has the clearances to be here. This—” he pointed to you “— _thing_ does not.”

“Yes,” Ren replied without a beat, “barefoot, in a dress, with my collar around her neck. Truly she is the greatest threat the First Order faces.” You could almost hear him rolling his eyes.

The challenger opened his mouth to issue what was no doubt an equally snappy retort, but someone interjected.

“Sir—”

Both men turned; you leaned to peer around the more familiar one.

“LeHuse,” your captor replied.

You were getting tired of having to keep track of names.

“Sir,” the man he had called ‘la hoose’ continued, “I have the formation strategy details you had asked for. If now is a good time—” he cast a hesitant glance in your direction.

“Ah—well, go on, Ren,” the ginger man said quickly, apparently quite pleased with himself, “I’m happy to babysit for you. After all, we can’t have you dragging a pet into classified meetings, now, can we?”

He cast a mocking glance at you. Your stomach churned.

You were grateful now for your master’s possessiveness. In just a moment he would open his mouth and object—suggest another time for the meeting, perhaps.

When he turned and began walking away, your stomach flipped again; you even considered reaching out and grabbing his sleeve like a petulant child. You watched in silent horror, glued to the spot where you stood, as he began to leave with ‘la hoose’.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he informed—or maybe warned—the ginger man before leaving the bridge.

You turned back to the pane of glass quickly, willing yourself to stare at anything but the man you were left with. You gazed out at the stars and they gazed back at you, as though twinkling with knowledge of a secret withheld.

The man cleared his throat and stepped forward, one pale hand rising to touch your own. You flinched, heart pounding in your chest as his fingers brushed lightly over the strip of leather.

“Do you know what your boyfriend does?”

You summoned the courage to glare at him, crossing your arms for added measure. He smirked. “He’s not—”

“Mhm, of course not,” he teased—cruel, not playful. His fingers tightened around your neck; at least when your captor choked you, there was a clear sexual element; that was, at least, easy to understand. This—well, you got the distinct impression that _this_ man wanted genuinely nothing more than to choke the life out of you.

You took a confident step backwards, hand clutching the railing for support of your unearned boldness. He regarded you quietly for a moment; you allowed yourself a breath only when it became clear that he didn’t intend to pursue.

“Your boyfriend,” he ignored your noise of protest, an evil glimmer appearing in his eye, “Those hands that touch your skin… he uses the very same hands to kill, you know. Men, women, and children. I’ve seen it; I’ve seen the fury within him. That hatred—”

You forced yourself to swallow, unwilling to hear any more. You stared longingly out the window, wishing only that you could jump out and join the stars, who seemed wholly unaffected by your torture. That was the worst thing about the world, wasn’t it? How it dared to continue on while you suffered.

The red-haired man stepped behind you, bending to whisper in your ear much as your captor had intended to.

“Did you know,” hot breath collided with your ear, warming your neck, “that he burns his victims? I think he gets off on it. He has a table of their ashes in his command office; I’ve seen it. Did you know that?”

Your head swam, the man’s proper accent somehow managing to sound lewd.

“Stop it,” you choked, gripping the railing tighter. Your knuckles went white.

“You know it’s true, don’t you? You already know how cruel he really is. And yet,” he murmured, softer than ever, trailing one finger up the inside of a wrist, “you want him all the same.”

Disgust swirled within you violently, threatening to spill over, threatening to burn _your_ insides alive. More than anything, you were disgusted at yourself; part of you had realized that this man… he knew things about your captor. Things you wanted—against all reason, against all decency—to know.

He was _right_.

You turned around slowly, planting your eyes in his chest. Black fabrics, just like your captors’—but cleaner, immaculately pressed. Formal.

“Poor child,” he murmured, sounding sickeningly like something your owner had said. “Are you really so broken?”

“What’s his name,” you whispered—the softest whisper you ever heard leave your lips. The most disgusting, vile, terrible, misguided thing—the most _wrong_ thing.  

The man only smiled knowingly.


	22. 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Material in this chapter references a plot point that was CHANGED in Chapter 13; so please go familiarize yourself with the (new) end to that chapter, if you haven't already.

Strong hands held your hips in place, a pelvis pushing hard against the cushion of your ass. In a sick way, you were grateful for the touch; it was proof that you were there, alive—that someone else was there with you. You stared down into the sheets beneath you, eyes gazing longingly into the soft-looking pillow. He’d let you collapse there in a moment; for now, ragged breathing came from someone above and behind you, his grip slowly beginning to soften. He pulled out a moment later with an obnoxiously loud, wet squelching sound. The galaxy seemed determined to allow you no dignity.

When he rose from the bed, you fell into it. You’d fallen into a semi-agreeable pattern over the last few days: you didn’t cause trouble, and he wouldn’t give you any. Or, at least, not _much_. He’d been allowing you to collapse in his bed after sex—at least for as long as he used the refresher. You took the opportunities to stretch out, letting your aching back recover from the night previous, where he’d made you sleep on the floor. Yes, he’d been gentler; but he’d still dumped you onto the floor before bedtime every night, usually with an accompanying comment about ‘not belonging in’ or ‘not deserving’ his bed.

At least you got these quiet moments to relax with fair frequency—at least twice a day, once in the morning, once at night. Sometimes he’d drop by in what you could only assume was the middle of the day, pull his robes aside, and—

You could feel his cum beginning to seep out of you, white on crimson petals. You sighed, bringing your knees to your chest. With the frequency you were fucking, you were confident he’d shot blanks at least once. Why couldn’t this be one of those times? You scowled, staring up at one of the panels on the ceiling. Draining the balls of someone so vile—it should completely disgust you. But it didn’t; it only _mostly_ disgusted you. The other allotment of disgust you directed at yourself.

You sighed again, pushing the feelings out of your mind, choosing instead to pull the thick sheets around you, swaddling your shoulders. You allowed yourself to close your eyes, losing yourself in the warmth and softness all around you. He’d be out in a moment, and this would all be over—but for now, you’d be comfortable. Wincing slightly, you pulled the sheets up above your nose, wishing you could disappear fully beneath them. He was right, after all, wasn’t he; this wasn’t so bad. You’d gone without reliable food or shelter for so long; only a year or two ago, you might have dreamt of this. Now, all you needed to ensure your own comfort was to obey.

His footsteps crept closer then, the refresher door swinging open. You let yourself groan internally—another night on the floor. The cold metal beneath your skin never felt welcoming; any warmth you might have felt from him vanished as soon as you were discarded. You tried to push the thoughts out of your mind as he rounded the bed. You kept your eyes pressed shut, fists balling into the soft material of his bedding. You felt the mattress sag under your body, giving way to its curves and tired muscles.

He hooked an arm under your leg then as he always did. The other arm snaked beneath your shoulders. He gripped, lifted, and pulled you tight against his chest; you felt him beginning to dip a knee. It was coming; you would be deposited onto the floor in no time.

You wrapped your arms around his neck instead, too fast to even stop yourself. He froze; you felt his muscles tense around you as if they themselves wondered what to do. You were sure that if you opened your eyes, you would witness that thing that he did with his mouth—that kind-of pout, kind-of swallow he did when he was conflicted. You clenched your own jaw, then, leaning into his chest. You rested your head against him.

“I…” you started, voice sounding fainter than you’d intended, though perhaps that would help. “There’s more I could do for you, you know,” you murmured, adding only a small edge of seduction. Mostly, you spoke matter-of-factly; why did his use of you have to end here? Many men enjoyed snuggling a woman to sleep. Most, in fact—at least in certain moods. He didn’t seem agitated from work—not today. It was a good time to try; as good as ever.  

The muscles in the arms wrapped around you remained stiff, impassive. You pressed your lips together, pressing against him with a new resolve. You didn’t want to sleep on the floor tonight—you _couldn’t_. It was far too cold and unyielding, the floor; you’d begged for a pillow and blanket, and he’d even given it. But nothing replaced the hardness of the floor, or the loneliness you felt as you laid on it. You didn’t even have to mean anything to him; you just wanted the warm bed. He could throw you in it and banish you to the other side for all you cared.

“Please,” you whispered, placing a small kiss on the skin of his chest. You glanced up at him; his eyes flicked down to yours. You muttered what you were sure was the right thing to say. “You’re all I have.”

You could _see_ his jaw clicking in to place. He issued a small huff—as though saying, ‘don’t get confused, you _don’t_ mean anything to me’—and dropped you onto the bed where he’d found you.

“Scoot over.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You scurried over to your side of the bed without preamble, burying yourself beneath the covers again. You didn’t peel back the covers for him on his side; you figured it was best to pretend not to exist until told otherwise. The bed shifted after a moment—a moment that felt much too long—and he settled into his spot. You blinked a few times, your breath directed back at you by the thick covers. He seemed to similarly pause; you took the opportunity to steal a glance at him.

He lay on his side, staring up at something on the ceiling (or maybe just at it in general). You turned your head, too, eyes searching for whatever it was. Ah, there—there was a little scuff-mark on one of the panels. Maybe whoever had installed it had left it there.

“Are you looking at that,” you asked after a long moment, working up the courage to point at the mark.

His head turned to face you; his eyes scanned your face. “Mhm.”

You let yourself look back up at the mark. It stared down at you, same as ever, wholly unmoved by your predicament.

“It’s nice, isn’t it—” you said slowly, maybe more to yourself than to him. “To know someone’s looking at the same thing you are. Feeling the same thing, even, maybe. It’s nice.”

He said nothing; you felt his eyes linger on you a while longer. You expected him to rebuff you; you expected him, maybe, to spout something existential, like ‘no one ever understands anyone else’. But he didn’t. No; he only stared for a few moments, then turned his head to—apparently—gaze at the spot again. You watched him swallow in your periphery, harder than usual, as he did when he seemed deep in thought.

He grunted. You took it as a ‘sure’.

A few more silent minutes passed. You weren’t eager to press you luck, so you remained silent, eyes transfixed on the mark, features in the room, on the sheets pressed close to you. The silky material underneath your bare skin felt good enough; you stretched out after a long minute, extending your toes as far as they’d agree to go. It felt nice, being able to be warm like this—even next to someone awful. You could, after all, pretend.

He lifted his arms, bending them and placing his hands underneath his head. “’There’s more I could do for you’,” he echoed, turning his head expectantly.

You bit the inside of a lip, smiling feebly. You forced yourself to swallow and forced your body to move across the bed, closing the gap between you. He—almost imperceptibly—seemed to tense. You pressed up against his side, resting your head on one side of his chest, letting a hand move to drape across his waist. It felt bold—even for you. If it was, he didn’t show it; he only laid there, apparently content to let the awkwardness hang in the air.

You always— _always_ —expected cold skin, red eyes; he always disappointed you. The skin that pressed up against your face wasn’t cold or clammy, but dry and warm. Human. You could feel the faint tremor of his heart, which resided on the other side of his chest; you could feel it, too, its consistent beat drumming lightly in your ears. These were the most uncomfortable kind of moments; the kind of moments in which you almost cared for him.

He let his right arm snake out from underneath his head as if on cue, instead dropping it to frame your back, holding you in place against him. Tiny little beads formed in your eyes. Truly, this was the worst kind of moment. A moment you’d shared only a few days earlier flashed into your mind—his response to a question you’d asked: why he had taken you onto the bridge? ‘I just thought you’d like it.’ You’d thought your heard had stopped; you almost gagged. It sounded so sickly sweet, coming from someone like _him_. Surely it was a lie, something crafted to get you to place false trust in him. Or maybe— _maybe_ —it was genuine. Somehow, that was even worse—that he should be capable of doing things simply out of kindness.

You stared at his chest a while—at the small tuft of hair on his sternum, barely visible if you weren’t truly looking. Meanwhile, you felt him move his head to look at you; you could _feel_ the heat of his eyes on you. You ignored him as long as you could before casting a hesitant glance in his direction. Your lips parted when you met those familiar brown eyes—eyes that surely, surely belonged to someone else. Anyone but him. They were too emotional to belong to Kylo Ren.

“You look at me as if I might fly up the chimney,” you caught yourself almost-whispering.

His brows pulled into a tiny crease. He looked around, confusion travelling across his features. “Hm?”

“Oh,” you stumbled over your words. “Just something I read in a book.”

The heroine had been in such a similar predicament—in a bed with a man she didn’t love. A man with secrets. Well, they both had them, you supposed.

Silence fell for a few short moments—then you felt his fingertips playing at the ends of a wisp of hair between your shoulders.

“What book?” he asked, rolling the piece between the pads of his fingers.

“Oh. Um, _An Awfully Big Adventure_.”  

He nodded; you weren’t sure he truly recognized the title. You forced yourself to swallow again, moving to rest your head on his chest again. It was easier when you didn’t have to look at him.

“I didn’t know you could read,” he murmured a moment later, voice as low and deep as ever. You probably should’ve been offended; that _was_ , certainly, the kind of thing people had rights to be offended by, wasn’t it? Yet he had said it so… passively. As if he’d never meant it as an insult at all. Simply a comment, as if making nothing more than a grim observation about the education system in Radhii.

You nodded slightly, swallowing the absurdity of the situation. “I… was lucky.”

You’d first learned to read between shifts on the production line; older kids helped you map words to their paper counterparts, helped you learn simple grammar. In the brothel, the older girls had helped you more fully develop literacy skills, sharing more advanced books and encouraging you to write—not least of which because it was also therapeutic. You imagined now that you were probably as literate as anyone.

His fingertips brushed over your lower back just then; you jumped a little, though you tried your best to pretend you hadn’t. He seemed to tense in response. That awkward silence creeped back between you; somehow, the skin pressing up against you seemed a little colder.

“Would books help?” he asked quietly. You felt like you could jump again; what had he said?

“I…” You took a moment to breathe, setting your jaw and staring up at the point on the ceiling again. “’Help’?” you repeated quietly.

He made only a small sound of acknowledgement.

“I… would like them, of course.” It was a non-committal answer. Help? You couldn’t say anything would _help_ —not _this_.

He stayed silent a bit longer, those heavy seconds hanging between you. “I’ll bring some.”

You winced a little; it was that same feeling—the feeling you got when he did something _nice_ for no apparent reason. It felt wrong, like you should turn it down on principle. But there was something else within you, too; something that glowed with gratefulness—joy, that he’d even thought of you. Hope that he maybe— _maybe_ —wanted you to be happy (or less miserable).

You pressed your lips into his skin almost absent-mindedly. “Thank you.” Simple words, but words you knew he liked to hear.

He stroked your back for a little while; your eyelashes fluttered and closed as the minutes passed. You drew your knees close to your chest as you started to drift into sleep. Then he spoke.

“Curious, isn’t it?”

“Hm?” You rubbed your eyes sleepily.

“A happy coincidence, ‘KT-0010’.”

You flinched. Why the _fuck_ did he think bringing up the First Order’s attempt at erasing your name would—

His next words cut off your train of thought.

“That it should sound so much like ‘kitten.’”

You gaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this like fully drunk on a pitcher of long island ice tea followed up by a strawberry daiquiri so don't come for me if there are errors; I'll fix 'em in the morning.


	23. 23

_A buzzing sound hummed in your ears from somewhere behind you. Your eyes protested the green glow lighting up the room. Something constricted in your stomach; you were going to be sick. Heart racing, you rolled over. He stood above you, his lightsaber held high and poised to strike. Your eyes opened a little wider, a thick layer of fear spreading through them; the knot in your belly twisted, sending a white-hot ripple of adrenaline through your veins. You started to feel something else, too: hatred, burning brighter than you ever knew it could._

You jerked awake, back into cold-sweat-soaked reality. The bed beneath you was moist from your perspiration, clinging onto your skin. With a heart threatening to pound out of your chest, you sat up quickly, still consumed by fear. You swallowed the bile that had risen in your throat, frantically scanning the room for your would-be murderer. But he wasn’t there; instead, brown eyes met yours.

You jumped instinctively; in the panic of your post-nightmare frenzy, you’d barely remembered there _was_ someone else with you. Clutching a hand to your chest, you muttered an apology. “Sorry,” you forced yourself to swallow again, chasing your breath, “Um. Bad dream.” You felt like a stupid child explaining a nightmare to a cross parent. You stared feebly into your hands, trying to calm the pace of your heart. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He made a noise low in his throat. An acknowledgement, but tinged with something else—annoyance? You cast a tentative look at the man to your left. He sat propped up on an elbow, angling his body towards you. His eyes narrowed slightly when you met them. Shit; was he mad? You had no control over your goddamn dreams!

“Tell me about the nightmare.” His voice was steady and plain, concealing whatever motive was there—you were sure it wasn’t pure curiosity. Your eyes flitted to your hands and back to him hesitantly; he cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, prompting you to obey.

“I—someone was trying to kill me, I think. With a lightsaber,” you told him honestly, jumbling the words together at the end as if he might miss them if you said them too fast. Your eyes betrayed you then, glancing over to the weapon that rested on his bedside. They lingered there for a few moments; you were unable to stop yourself. You hadn’t gotten a good look at the man in the dream—the glow had distorted his face too much, and you’d been too preoccupied with the impending feeling of doom to pay much attention to his features. Was it a vision of your future—of Kylo Ren on the night he finally tired of you? Something twisted in your stomach at the thought, just as it had in the dream—except this time, a sense of sadness spread slowly through your limbs, making you shiver.

An unreadable expression crossed his face; you thought you could make out a hint of annoyance—maybe even anger—before he pressed his lips into a line.

“I’m not a sadist,” he said as though offended, clearly doing well to read your emotions. You flinched. You weren’t exactly sure you agreed. “There’s nothing about you dead or injured that would make me happy. And I’ve already told you that I have no plans to kill you.”

Annoyance crossed his features openly when he finished; he was clearly unhappy at having to repeat himself—or maybe that you’d dared to entertain that thought at all.

“The lightsaber…” he started again, slower this time. His voice was much softer now—more deliberate, every word sounding measured. It made your anxiety spike again; little licks of fear travelled up your spine and diffused around your neck, making your scalp tingle. “What color was it?” he asked. There was a softness in his voice, but not in the words—as though he was trying very hard to sound casual. Your ears felt as though they were burning; you struggled to swallow a lump in your throat. It seemed, somehow, imperative that you lie. Something within you—a quiet, whispering, unwavering voice—told you to lie.

“Red,” you said, turning confidently to meet his gaze. You pictured nothing but a red lightsaber in your mind— _his_ lightsaber—and allowed your eyes to flick back and forth between it and him. The hinge of his jaw tensed; his eyes narrowed further as he stared at you. His glare burned a hole into you; his eyes searched yours for any hint of a lie. You dared not to breathe and held steady. Somehow, that feeling never wavered; you held firm in your resolve to tell the lie. 

“I see,” he said after a long moment, pulling back from you. You’d barely noticed how close he’d gotten. You turned away, too, trying to figure out a way to catch your breath without him noticing that you’d just been holding it. You breathed out slowly, eyes focusing on a point on the opposite wall. His tone—he didn’t seem completely convinced. A little frown crossed your lips; you picked at the skin around your nailbeds absentmindedly. If he was convinced you had lied, you had no doubt he would’ve had you well across his knee by now. Still, you were sure he suspected it.

You took a deep breath, determined to regulate your thoughts and emotions; if you didn’t, you knew there would be hell to pay.

“I want you to go back to sleep.”

You turned your head to meet his eyes again. Something strange hovered in them—a mix of emotions you couldn’t put a name to. One thing was clear, however: that was an order. You nodded compliantly, all too willing to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere, and dropped quickly onto your back. He pulled the covers up a moment later, and the bed shifted in time with his weight.

You lay in silence for an eternity, the quiet in the room starting to buzz in your ears. Worse, still, you were forced to push every thought out of your mind; you _had_ to keep this a secret from him. You didn’t know why, but that much was clear to you: that you’d needed to lie, and now you must keep it a secret as a matter of self-preservation. _Something_ within you knew why, though that voice wasn’t telling. You didn’t know when exactly he could hear your thoughts, but you were unwilling to take any chances. So instead, you lay there blankly, a creeping anxiety starting to boil up within you.

“Kitten.”

You jumped. _So much for being covert_.  

“You’re having such trouble sleeping.” Lips pressed against the skin of your neck, right under the flesh of your ear. He planted a small kiss; his lips lingered. Long fingers traced up the curve of your hip, the touch featherlight and gentle. “You would never lie to me, would you, kitten?”

You thought for a moment— _no, it couldn’t be_ —that his voice betrayed the slightest touch of fear. Vulnerability.

The boiling in your stomach toppled over, making your heart stop. Your eyes went wide; your lips parted. You were grateful, at least, that you were facing away from him. No air filled your lungs, nor did any leave. As if in slow motion, your head shook once from side to side without your oversight. You felt a response form on your lips and leave them, as if spoken entirely by someone else.

“No, Master. Never.”

You held your breath, waiting to die—waiting for confirmation that he _knew_. Instead, the soft lips planted an even softer kiss on your neck. Normal passage of time resumed. A large, warm finger had worked its way under your collar; he gave it a light tug. It shot to your clit; your cycle of self-hatred continued. He hummed.

“Do you need help getting to sleep?”

 _That voice_ ; warm and smooth, it possessed an almost-tender quality reserved for the times when you’d shown perfect obedience. Did—did he _believe you_? Did he truly believe you’d had a nightmare about him? His fingers had worked their way up to stroke your arm, gentle and soothing, as though genuinely trying to help calm you. He didn’t seem so bad—not in these moments.

You nodded. He shifted, stroking up your arm with the back of his hand before bringing it to your temple. “I want you to count back from ten for me. Can you do that?”

 _‘For me’_. You nodded stupidly; you’d do just about anything he asked if that voice stuck around. A murmur of ‘good girl’ from behind you sent more little butterflies aflutter in your belly.

“Ten,” you whispered.

He put her to sleep before another word left her lips, monitoring her until he was confident she would continue sleeping naturally. He pulled his influence from her mind gently, closing his own eyes. Now all that was left was to beg for sleep to take him, too.

 

* * *

 

It took you a while to wake up. You kept weaving in and out of sleep, questioning every time you opened your eyes whether any time had elapsed at all. After the fourth time of groggily questioning whether you were truly conscious, you stretched out, pointing your toes and stifling a yawn. Only then did you notice the hand stretched out towards you.

The man on the opposite side of the bed was still fast asleep, his right arm bent towards you as if he’d fallen asleep holding your hand. He hadn’t, of course. But you stared nonetheless, a little emotion churning in your stomach. He wasn’t the worst, you supposed. Especially not like this—splayed out, peaceful-looking. He looked little older than a boy like this, his hair framing his face in soft waves, the circles under his eyes gone. There were no shallow wrinkles on his forehead now; every part of him looked relaxed, harmless.

You winced a little at the tone he’d used last night. _‘You’d never lie to me, would you, kitten?’_ He’d sounded, for the briefest of moments, a little unsure of himself. Hmpf. A small smile crept over your lips, tugging just the edges up. The mighty Kylo Ren had soft spots after all.

You glanced back over at the sleeping man. He looked so trusting—so trustworthy. You never would have suspected the horrors he’d caused—or, you supposed, the horrors he’d seen. A little pity trickled into your bloodstream. Something about him seemed so starved at times; you’d only seen glimpses of that side of him, but it was so clearly there. Frowning, you wondered if anyone had ever tucked him in or sung him to sleep.

You should have known that would be your downfall, empathy—but something about him, the way he slept that morning, made him look so desperately needy for affection. Before you’d really thought anything through, you’d leaned over and placed an open-mouthed kiss where his clavicles met. He groaned in his sleep, the fingers of one hand jolting a bit. Placing another two soft kisses beneath the first, you made your way to his navel. You felt the heat of two eyes focused on you there; he had woken up without a sound.

You glanced up nervously. He’d tilted his head to the side slightly, looking at you through the eyelashes of his half-hooded lids. A curious expression crossed his face.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured; suddenly you were the one unsure of yourself. “Should I have asked permission…sir?” You muttered the last word; it felt out of place on your lips. You’d always be awkward at this: you were sure of it.

He smirked slightly, a gentle kind of amusement in his eyes. “No,” he reassured you, two fingers of his right hand playing at a strand of your hair. “I don’t really do the whole stupid-Dom-rules thing. ‘Thou shalt not touch me.’” He rolled his eyes. “Seems to defeat much of the point.”

“‘Stupid-Dom-rules’,” you mouthed back silently. _‘Dom’_. The leather around your neck reminded you it was there; you’d almost forgotten you’d agreed (well, sort of) to play cops and robbers with your pants off. A thumb interrupted your thoughts, stroking the side of one of your cheeks. You kissed the top of the thin trail of hair below his navel in response.

You weren’t an idiot; you knew he was getting hard. And for the first time, you were… okay with it? As okay as you could be, given the circumstances— _being a slave and all_. His hands collected your hair, giving it a slight tug. You glanced up; he curled a single finger at you, motioning you up his body.

“Hm?” you asked, a little smile playing at your lips. You knew perfectly well what you were doing.

A playful smile crossed his, too. He brought you closer to him before pulling your lips down onto his. You made the mistake of moaning into his mouth, which sent his hands start running up and down your sides. Soft, pillowy lips moved on yours, short and sweet. There were no violent attempts to shove his tongue into your mouth, which you were grateful for; it felt like the kind of kiss you gave someone you actually liked.

You blinked a few times when it was time to pull away. You smiled a little sadly, forcing yourself to swallow. “You know what the worst part of that nightmare was?” He tensed; something in his eyes looked uncomfortable. _Shit. Here you go, pouring out your feelings without invitation to a fucking murderer._ You shoved the more reasonable voice out of your head. “I’ve never felt so alone as I did in that moment, in the dream.” Little beads had formed in your eyes. He listened silently; when you locked eyes with him again, the uncomfortable look had gone, replaced with one of resolve.

“You’re not alone.”

Your lips twitched. “Neither are you.”

He regarded you for a long moment, an unspoken understanding hanging between you. You were sure, then, that you could see it in his eyes: fondness. It wasn’t imagined.

A little glimmer crept into those eyes; a small smirk crossed his lips. He squeezed your ass.

“Now suck my cock like a good slut.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, equal parts amused and embarrassed. Heat burned on your cheeks. He had good comedic timing, you had to give him that.

As you kissed down his chest again, markedly more hurried this time, you weren’t sure which was more concerning: how quickly he went from tender to horny, or how much you liked it when he talked to you like that. _We’re both deeply fucked up_.

He parted his legs for you when you’d finished kissing down his happy trail; you moved between them when it hit you—you hadn’t given him a blowjob yet. Not really; not a proper one. You didn’t know what he liked. A girlish nervousness set into you; those little butterflies reappeared in your stomach, now for a very different reason.

He gathered your hair in his hands again, winding the long locks around his right wrist. His hand cupped the back of your head, but he didn’t push you down. He seemed to be in no rush; this was _your_ job.

Wrapping a hand around his length, you smeared his precum around the head of his cock. You pulled his foreskin back, then, working it back up over the head of his cock, back down, back up again. He groaned his approval as you moved to his balls; you glanced up at him for approval. Not all men liked this. He nodded, lips already parted, watching you intently. You kissed his scrotum, tonguing at the seam separating his balls. He cursed indecipherably above you as took one of his balls in your mouth, sucking lightly, then the other.

Precum wet your fingers as you started pumping his shaft, leaking from the slit of the angry-looking head. It begged for attention. You moved up his cock, trailing your tongue along its underside. The legs on either side of you were trembling slightly; his body wanted more, and he was fighting the urge to thrust.

For whatever it was worth, you appreciated it.

You stopped to tongue his frenulum, which forced another audible groan from him. “Fuck,” he hissed, neck craning to watch you. It seemed the perfect moment to replace the motion of his foreskin with your lips. You sealed around him, bobbing your mouth on the clustered inches of nerves near the tip of his cock.

“Fuck! Good girl. You expert fucking cocksucker—” he managed to say between breaths—alongside some other choice expletives, which seemed to be flowing much more freely from his mouth. A c _ultured_ mouth, you noted; you’d forgotten how satisfying this could be, to reduce a man to an incoherent mess. This—this went well beyond any class divide. Every man was the same when it came to seeking release.

You teased him with your tongue while you bobbed your head, licking over his slit, tonguing the underside of his shaft. He was getting hot too fast; you pulled your mouth off him a moment later, planting little kisses down his length.

“Fuck,” he panted, “get those filthy fucking lips back on my cock.”

You moaned indulgently, rubbing his inner thighs with your hands. “Soon, I promise.” You knew he was secretly glad you’d bought him time. He caught up to his breath, fingers gripping the back of your head a little harder. A couple particularly long drags of your lips up his cock had made his legs bend slightly at the knees and his eyes water.

To his credit, he didn’t shove you back down, though you knew he wanted to. You took him back in your mouth a moment later, sliding his length along your tongue until the head of his cock hit your gag reflex. He grunted and tapped your left arm. You knew what he wanted; you offered it to him, and he squeezed between your middle and ring fingers—the same trick he’d used before to make you stop gagging on his cum. He pressed his hips up greedily and his cock slid into your throat.

It was your turn to have your eyes water.

“God. Fuck. Shit.”

If there was a hell, he was going to it. But then, you both were.

He snapped his hips a few times, low groans emerging from his throat every time. “Fuck, I want to come in that pretty little mouth.”

You moaned on his length; his legs trembled. Pulling him out of your throat, you spit the long string of accompanying saliva onto his shaft and took the head between your lips. You bobbed—wet, and messy, and fast—up and down, tonguing the nerves packed into his tip.

He came—hard. They all did.

Then he whispered something—still coming down from his post-orgasm high—that divided your emotions decidedly in two.

“I don’t deserve you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're right, Ren. You fuckin' don't.


	24. 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, some notes and words of warning: please don't forget that this is a darkfic. There are happy moments, and sexy moments, but there will also be deep, dark, sad moments. That's just what this is. In large part because (spoiler alert) the fluff is about to come to an end for a while in this fic, I've started another. "Let's See" is a Logan Lucky AU for Star Wars, where Kylo's (Clyde's) and Reader/Female Character/Rey/whatever's storyline will explore less-trigger-heavy themes. There will be lots of fluff and loving smut in that fic, and is intended to be much more of a slow burn/falling in love fic, so check that out if you're into that sort of thing.
> 
> Next chapter (I think) is going to contain some graphic depictions of violence and/or other misc upsetting material. Rating for this fic has been accordingly upgraded. Please be advised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to pretend Spanish is a thing in the Star Wars universe, so don't @ me. 
> 
> Song is Mi Ancla by Mindy Gledhill.

You lay awake in bed, praying for the nausea to go away. You didn’t know how you’d managed to get sick when you hardly went outside, but it had happened. You glanced over; he’d left two hours ago. You knew from the clock he’d put by the bedside some number of months ago, when he’d decided you ‘deserved it’. It was one of the first nice things he did—and one of the most helpful. Before, it had felt like every day was somehow a different number of hours, just slipping through your hands. Now, at least, you had some way to map out the time.

You’d both collapsed into a general routine. In the mornings, he’d roll out of bed and take a shower. Then, a ridiculous amount of time would be spent on getting into all his layers of work clothes (if you could even call them that). He had, for a while, insisted that you had breakfast together. Eventually, though—and you did feel bad about it—he stopped asking, as you’d never really been able to wake up that early anyways. Instead, he let you sleep in while he fixed himself something simple, or went without altogether (or maybe he grabbed food elsewhere—you wouldn’t know). Before leaving—always at the same time—he’d kiss you and pull the covers up over your shoulders.

That was new, too: the affection. He became much gentler; you couldn’t remember the last time he’d even raised his voice. Maybe a month ago? Even then, your worst offenses had only earned a slap on the ass. The sex had remained rough, but turned into soft cuddles afterwards. As time passed, he started moving progressively closer to you otherwise, too. For a while, he continued to wrap up his work at night at the table; then, he’d migrated to the couch, before finally appearing with his datapad next to you on his side of the bed. Once, you’d snuggled up next to his arm; he lifted it, wrapped it around your shoulders, and pulled you into him. Now you went to sleep, more often than not, nestled into the crook of his neck. He didn’t even seem to care that you could see the screen of his datapad—none of it made sense to you anyways.

When you’d first given up on fighting him at every turn, you thought you’d grow to pity yourself. Surely, you thought, you’d become some identity-less slave who’d lose her own way. Instead, you grew to pity _him_. The longer you spent with him, the more you could see how starved for companionship he seemed. You’d started sharing genuine smiles, genuine laughter, and bits and pieces about your days; he was, somehow, interested in yours, and asked about it every night. He even rubbed your back when you got your period. Over time, his ‘I’ll never let you go’s started slowly sounding less like threats, and more like promises.

To that end, he’d made your life much more comfortable. You still hadn’t been out much—though you weren’t too mad about it, given how unpleasant some of the people on this ship were—but your life within his rooms had become nicer. Little baggies of cubed cheeses waited for you in the fridge, alongside lunch meats, grappaberries, pomegranate seeds, and some containers of nuts on the counter. He’d stocked one of the crisper draws with some kind of stalk-vegetable you didn’t know the name of, insisting it was good with one of the creamier cheeses (which you’d also avoided). You didn’t, in fact, think that this sounded good at all. Still, you appreciated the gesture. He’d also added a bowl of fresh fruit to the table; it started off with a hodge-podge mix of a variety of things, and slowly became just a bowl of your favorites.

It was cute, really, if you thought about it. You cracked a little smile.

But there were bad things, too. The secrets between you were growing—you could tell. The nightmares— _his_ nightmares, you were sure of it now—continued. You still didn’t know how you could possibly be having his dreams, but you did manage to figure out that it only happened when you were touching him. So, a month or two ago, you’d started wiggling out of his grasp whenever you woke up at night. You were pretty sure he’d noticed, too; once, his grip tightened around your waist, much too strong for an asleep person. You’d come up with a lame excuse about how him touching you at night kept waking you up. It was a complete turn-around from your prior attitude, and he noticed: he glared, then looked at you suspiciously.

Though he eventually rolled over and let you be—with the addition of an annoyed huff—he definitely knew something weird was up; he’d known since the night you lied about the color of the lightsaber you’d seen in the dream. You wondered, more casually than you should’ve, if he knew the mechanism of this weird connection. Once, he’d stopped in the middle of sex, looked down at you quite seriously, craned his neck, and said, ‘Yep, it’s definitely you’. The girl he’d been looking for, that is—the girl he’d once had dreams about.

If all his dreams ended up coming true, you wanted no part of it. You’d seen what some of those dreams looked like.

There were other things, too. While your cunt may have been all-too-happy to forget about what he did for a living, your mind wasn’t. He was, increasingly, coming home with various injuries. Scars across his back, sometimes still bleeding; bruises to his eyes; smaller cuts or large splotchy bruising on his chest and stomach. Once, it looked quite like he’d been burned in little spots covering his whole body. He’d swatted your hand away when you’d tried to use your cosmetic aloe on him—he left that night for a bacta tank, and came back almost as good as new. It didn’t stop you from worrying.

That part was disgusting, wasn’t it—that you were more worried for him than whoever it was who had given him those marks. It may well have been his victims, you reminded yourself crossly. He did, after all, specialize in torture and killing for a living. _And you love him_.

You groaned, pulled back down to reality by your thoughts, and threw aside the comforter. You’d been avoiding any statements of affection though, if you were honest, you desperately wanted to hear one from him. He kept saying ‘I want you’—you suspected in place of another four-letter, better-sounding word. Both of you seemed to know that you were lying to—or at least keeping information from—the other; yet you both seemed to mutually suspend your disbelief, happy to instead ignore all your problems and live in some kind of fake bliss.

You groaned again and walked into the refresher. Your reflection stared back at you, healthier-looking than when you’d arrived. Much. You’d gained some needed weight, and there was a new shine to your hair and nails. Your skin, too, had cleared up and gained a little glow recently. The only things you grimaced at were the healing love marks on your neck—including a bite you rolled your eyes at—and your sore nipples. You decided he’d twisted them too hard. You’d have to ask him not to.

Selling out to a rich guy sure looked nice on you. You sighed at yourself.

After taking a long shower, you spent the rest of the day in and out of bed, reading and not-reading, turning the music player on while busying yourself around the ‘house’.

When he finally walked through the door, it was immediately clear it was not going to be one of those ‘hello, sweetheart’ nights. Instead, he plodded across the room and sunk into the dark-leathered armchair, holding a hand out for his datapad (which he force-pulled to him as usual). He whipped his gloves off, tossing them aside with too-much strength. The helmet stayed on. That was weird.

“You alright?” you asked as gently and unassuming as you could muster. You did _not_ want to wake the beast. The face of his helmet tilted up at you.

“Fine.”

You gulped. That cold, hard, inhuman voice made you shiver. You hadn’t heard it in a long time; he knew you didn’t like it. It wasn’t the voice of the man you’d developed feelings for, that was for certain.

You sat on the coffee table adjacent to him and, cautiously, put a hand on his knee.

“Will you take that off, please?”

You hated yourself the most in moments like these—the ones where you closely monitored your tone, too scared to talk to him like a normal partner would. _This isn’t a healthy relationship!_ some inner voice screamed at you. An inner voice you wanted to get lost.

“No.”

You waited a few seconds, swallowed hard, and gambled.

“Please.”

You’d said it softly, barely above a whisper, and ran your thumb back and forth over his knee gently. _God, please don’t be angry._

You breathed a too-audible sigh of relief when, a moment later, his thumbs ventured up to the latches. That relief vanished when the façade dropped away, however: a long, red cut stretched from above his right eyebrow to the base of his neck, disappearing below the quilted tunic you’d snuggled into more times than you could count.

You gasped. He sighed, as if to say ‘this is why I didn’t want to’. The upper part of the cut was relatively straight, thin, and slanted down and across his cheek to his jaw. The lower part, however, was wider and more jagged. The entire thing looked as though a very large lightning bolt had cut through and seared the skin in its path.

You said nothing—you knew he didn’t want you to—and went to retrieve cotton balls, some antiseptic, and black bandages. You dabbed at the wounds, as annoyed as he looked, before it slipped it.

“Please don’t tell me this is from trying to kill someone.”

He jerked away.

 _Shit_. Yep, he was mad.

“This is from trying to _not_ kill somebody,” he hissed through his teeth.

You frowned and blinked a few times. “What?”

He huffed, leaned back in the chair, and threaded his fingers in front of his face. He sat silently for a few moments, clearly thinking of what to say.

“The Supreme Leader…” you winced—he had told you about this guy before, never very positively—“…has been increasingly adamant that I… get rid of you.”

He’d taken a long time to string the last words together; they still burned, triggering a feeling of slow-motion panic in you.

“What?” you gawked, checking to hear if you’d heard correctly.

He met your eyes once, determined quickly it was a mistake, and looked away. He leaned forward, took a deep breath, and buried his head in his hands.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You leapt up, much more outraged than you were allowed to be. “Don’t worry about it? You just fucking threatened to kill me!”

He groaned, sat up, and pointed authoritatively back down. “Sit.” It wasn’t a request. “I did no such thing, and you know it,” he spat.  

“Oh,” you said as you sat down, unwisely choosing to continue to argue all the while, “so you’re just _casually_ telling me that you’re supposed to kill me!”

He rolled his eyes, waving one annoyed hand at you dismissively. “Don’t nag me to talk about my worries if you can’t handle them.”

You crossed your eyes—the petulant child, again—and stared at your feet. Silence fell for a full minute.

“So, what’re you going to do, then?”

“Well not that, obviously!” He, for one, sounded just as hurt as he’d looked when you’d asked him to stop holding you during the night.

You nodded stupidly, much less concerned than you maybe should’ve been, and picked at the skin around your nails. Your mouth twisted and untwisted into little lines; his did that weird swallow-bobbing thing that he did when upset. You sat in uncomfortable silence for another few minutes.

“So, you want to fuck, or what?”

Your head shot up to shoot him a glare. “What?” you spat, “Are you serious? Is this how you resolve everything?”

“Most things.” There was no hint of a smile on his face—just the same serious expression from before.

“Ugh,” you stood up, brushing off the front of your shirt, “fine.”

“Fine.”

A few minutes later, clothes had been shed, limbs had been splayed, and you found yourself rocking into his lap. A new song started from the music player behind you.

_Cuando el mundo al girar_

_Como un rojo globo que al cielo va—_

You cursed yourself, silently, for being just as bad as he was. You also cursed yourself for how increasingly sympathetic you thought he looked—tousled hair; small trickles of blood drying on his face from that long cut, which must have been given to him by this ‘Supreme Leader’; a sad, distracted little look in his eyes. It played, predictably, on your heart strings—the very same ones you were so desperately trying to keep under wraps.

_Soy famosa en el lugar_

_Por inquieta y no puedo parar_

_Pero yo te busco sin cesar_

_Mi ancla tú serás_

Especially now, getting emotional was the worst thing you could do. But you were scared: someone wanted you dead—someone _in charge_ of this volatile, broken man wanted you dead. Now, more than ever, you just wanted to hear those little words of comfort.

_Extraña es la imagen que doy_

_Me quieren cambiar a la moda de hoy_

_Pero tú me abrazas donde estoy_

_Y es que tú me amas tal y como soy_

He stilled underneath you; you didn’t notice, gyrating rhythmically while lost in your own head until you heard him say ‘stop’. Flinching, your brows knit together. What?

“Why are you crying?” he asked, one-part annoyed, one-part concerned, one-part a mix of something else.

“I just—” you choked, trying to stop the tears. He _hated_ when you cried. It made him lose his erection.

_Causas risa me dirán_

_Como una princesa me tratarás_

_Si me pierdo tú me encontrarás_

_Mi ancla tú serás_

“I just want you—” Stop. Don’t say it. God, don’t— “—I just want you to _love me_.”

You half-sobbed the last words.

His eyes went slack, rolling up a little bit; his chest rose, taking in a deep breath. You’d dropped a bomb—and he looked every bit as though it was the worst thing you could’ve said.

 “God-fucking-dammit.” He reached up and wrapped one of those large, warm hands around your neck. Your whole body grew warm as blood failed to reach your brain, a tingling feeling spreading through your limbs. The world started to close in around you, tugging you into the only comforting embrace he would offer as the last of the lyrics played in your head.

_—y mis pies en el suelo no están_

_Mi ancla tú serás_


	25. 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the big gap between the last update and this one. This chapter was hard to write, not least of which because it's kind of deeply emotional, both for Reader and for Kylo. It was hard to get into that headspace (I didn't want to for several days, and instead binge-read a lot of fluff fics. Satan Wears a Rolex is LOVELY by the way!), and when I did, I spent most of that time brainstorming ways to tie up some loose ends while creating new ones. Hopefully there's enough detail AND emotional ambiguity in here to pack the punch of feels I was going for.
> 
> Your comments really keep me going in more difficult times, so thanks again for all of those.
> 
> Good luck and thanks for tuning in.

He wrapped his arms around her, dragging her close to his chest. Her head—smaller, tired—rested on his shoulder. This was his fault, really: how upset she was. He should’ve done more to temper expectations—or maybe just outright lied to her. Either way, he felt responsible; it was his job, now, to lull her into a peaceful sleep.

He knelt on the bed, cradling her to his body like a large baby, gradually leaning her down into a clean swath of bed until cool sheets rested against her back. She let go of him reluctantly. Something in his stomach tightened as he pulled the covers up to her neck, tucked them over her shoulders, and laid down at her side. He draped a large arm over her, pulling her into his chest again.

“Now,” he murmured, thumbing away silvery tears from her cheek. “There’s no need for this.”

She sniffled defiantly; she in no way agreed. He swallowed, harder than he’d meant to, his Adam’s apple bobbing in time with the emotion he wished he didn’t feel. The faint red glow of his hand was fading, slowly, from her neck. He’d managed to get her calm enough that he could cum through some combination of cutting off her air and pretending she wasn’t crying.  There was no way he could bring her to orgasm after him, so he hadn’t tried.

She really was very pretty like this. His seed would be leaking from her soon, he thought with a possessive pang. She pulled her legs up not more than a moment later, almost as if she’d heard his thoughts. He hummed softly, allowing his fingertips to rub into her shoulder in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.

“I want you very much,” he explained, slowly. “I know it’s not the same as an ‘I love you’—”

“I don’t love you,” she spit back, rolling onto her side away from him. “I just said I wanted _you_ to. That’s not the same thing.”

He grimaced, pursuing her in bed, his grip on her tightening. “Of course not,” he said gently, deciding to humor her, “of course not.”

A silent moment passed. He could feel energy radiating off her—nothing good, of course. He felt a mix of emotion he couldn’t quite parse; anger, naturally, and embarrassment—and something more. Something that felt really rather miserable. Empty, bottomless.

“Well, I do want you,” he repeated, drawing little patterns into the shoulder closest to him. She shrugged him off; he gripped her shoulder in warning. She relaxed it. Good girl.

He let another couple awkward moments pass, contented with listening to the sound of her breathing. She seemed to be doing so normally; no permanent damage from the choking. He did always try to be mindful of it…

He stretched out a hand when it became clear she was going to be stuck in this emotional rut for the foreseeable future, commanding her bear into his open palm. He pried her hands open next—it took some commitment—and wedged it between them.

“You’re the worst, you know that?”

Her words came to him soft and muffled; she’d spoken them into the head of her bear, hugging him close as if he was her one true friend. He scoffed low in his throat, gripping her hips and rolling her into him. She blinked once, twice, three times, never meeting his eyes. Instead, she stared straight ahead, into his chest.

“What was that, kitten?” he asked, voice lower and tinged slightly with danger. He wanted to give her a chance to take it back—adjust her attitude.

She pouted, pulled the bear down a bit, and repeated herself. “You’re the worst, Ren,” she enunciated clearly, tear-filled eyes never bothering to leave his chest. He set his jaw; that was another problem—the use of his name. He’d correct it another day.

“Kitten—”

“Don’t.”

She’d choked out the word, bitter and resentful. He found himself closing his mouth, for once, and swallowing the rest of his sentence. A little bit of fear zapped through him; he wasn’t sure he could fix this, not anymore. Not with how hollow she sounded.

“Are you going to be able to sleep?” he asked quietly—stupidly—his own eyes trained straight ahead like hers.

He saw her shake her head in his periphery.

“Do you want me to—” he cleared his throat, not wanting to acknowledge the severity of her pain.

He saw her nodding—an animal in agony, begging to be put down.

He cracked his jaw again, brought a trembling hand to her temple, and clenched his fingers. He tugged the energy out of her mind as gently as he could manage, allowing his gaze to dip to the sleeping girl in his arms.

She looked peaceful for the first time that night. He closed his own lids after a moment, the thumping of her heart loud in his head. He heard, too, a faint echo of every beat, reverberating through her ribcage.

He made a vague mental note to take her to medbay soon (to make sure he hadn’t choked her into an arrhythmia) before sleep came to claim him, too.

 

* * *

 

You woke up to a light kiss on the cheek. Stretching out, you yawned, grateful for the rest; you hated asking him for force-sleep, but it’d been a small mercy last night.

The hollowness in your belly had persisted, however—the hopelessness that had crept in the moment he didn’t give the loving affirmation you’d been waiting for. It wasn’t his fault, really; it was yours, for expecting something more from a murderer. He’d been honest this whole time about what he’d wanted, hadn’t he? Sex, a play-thing, maybe a companion—at most. It’d been your fault for dreaming of more.

Still, the weight of the blow fell heavy on your chest, almost too-surreal-feeling to process properly. So, instead, you tried to ignore it.

“Hungry?” he asked quietly, voice level in a tone you recognized as artificial. He was afraid of having to give you the let-down talk again, probably. You bit your lip; you weren’t a child. You could manage your emotions without throwing a tantrum.

You shook your head.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asked suspiciously, his taller figure hovering over you now, framed by the light of the refresher in the background.

“Mhm,” you moaned, rolling away from the light, covering your eyes. “Lunch,” you lied.

You heard a small huff; he didn’t believe you. Dammit.

“Just not hungry lately,” you explained quietly. It was true—and you felt nauseous to boot.

“If you’re sick I should take you to medbay,” he said, having apparently been peering in on your thoughts. You really wished he wouldn’t do that—especially now, when he’d all-but-confirmed he didn’t want intimacy (or, at least, a real relationship).

“Not sick. Just a cold.”

“’A cold’ is sick,” he replied stubbornly.

“I’m fine.”

“I want you to eat.”

This was going nowhere fast. You threw the covers off in a huff—you were very sure he was going to punish you for it later—and stormed into the kitchen. He’d padded along quietly behind you, watching warily as you grabbed a bowl of grappaberries from the fridge.

“Happy?” you asked, popping one into your mouth with mock-exaggeration.

“No.”

Yep, definitely going to be punished. At least he didn’t have time for it now.

You listened to the sound of the shower running from the kitchen, popping the rest of the suddenly-too-sour berries into your mouth. You didn’t know how food could suddenly taste so different, but it did; you just weren’t in the mood for it—or much of anything. When you’d finished, you sunk back into bed, pulled the covers up, and turned into the call for sleep. Ren be damned.

You woke up much later than you’d intended to—six hours, apparently—and threw the covers off, much as you’d done this morning. You didn’t know why, exactly: it’s not like you had anything to rush off to. No, it’s just that the bed smelled a little too much like him. The emptiness in the pit of your stomach remained—both from your lack of hunger, and from the creeping despair you were refusing to acknowledge. He didn’t love you, so what—right?

Right. It was fine. You didn’t want it anyway.

The girl that stared back in the mirror was the same one you’d slowly come to accept was you. A few purple marks peppered her neck—well, yours, you supposed—a large handprint leaving behind a ghost of a bruise. There were reminders of him everywhere, weren’t there. You groaned, hopping into the shower to clean the snot of male ecstasy from between your thighs.  

When you’d finished, you stared at the girl a little longer. Hot tears threatened to form in your eyes; you shoved them back down, instead, happy to bottle your emotions up for some other time. You’d explode eventually, that much you knew—you’d learned from the best, after all. But for now, that sense of loss was more than you wanted to feel. You wanted to go about your day as stupidly as you’d done before, pretending that some rich space baddie had feelings for you.

You groaned at yourself again. Pathetic.

The shower had exacerbated an already-growing headache, one you’d felt for the last week at least. Your skin had grown too-hot from the water; you toweled off your hair as much as you could bring yourself to care before flopping down on the cold leather couch in the living room. The wet beads still clinging to your body would probably ruin it.

Whatever.

You lay staring at the ceiling a while, grateful for the cool press of the material on your back. Slowly, sneakily, the issue of Him crept back into your mind. Maybe this wasn’t so terrible, you thought, running a hand through your tangled-up hair. You knew he’d been keeping secrets from you; the only reason you hadn’t cared sooner was because you’d been lovesick, all too happy to suspend your disbelief. But now…

The questions you’d had upon your arrival—your kidnapping, you corrected yourself slowly—began bubbling to the surface. Who was this man, really? A vague memory played out in your mind, his sour reaction to a woman’s name the only crystal-clear part. Mhm, Leia. Had to be his mother, didn’t she? That much you’d figured out a while ago, before you’d slipped into your stupor of domestic bliss. But his father—and thus, his real name—that had eluded you.

You thrummed the fingers of one hand against your ribcage thoughtfully, wracking your brain for a name. You could only just remember the lore of Luke and Leia; you knew her husband had been famous too, hadn’t he? A pilot, just as Ren said. You searched harder, willing a name to rise to the surface—but nothing did.

Your sore nipples protested as you ran a hand absentmindedly over one breast. You wished your period would just come already so you didn’t have to deal with these—

“— _Solo_ ,” a faint voice whispered the indecipherable word, raspy yet distinctively male.

You jumped, covering yourself on instinct.

Your heart hammered in your chest. Were you suddenly a lunatic, now, too? Surely you hadn’t just heard—

There. Your eyes fell on the object, understanding immediately flowing through you, confirming a long-held suspicion. Of course; you’d caught Ren talking to this thing when he thought you were fast asleep. And the dreams— _his_ dreams—you could see them; so why shouldn’t you be able to speak to the sculpture, too?

You swallowed hard and leaned closer to the warped helmet, feeling a little insane.

“Hel-hello?” you asked quietly, feeling more stupid with every audible syllable.

No response. You frowned. It was a weird thing to be doing, to be whispering like a crazy person to some coffee table sculpture. Maybe it was secretly some kind of relic of the dark side—you wouldn’t know.

You crossed your arms, lips curling down into a deeper frown. Goddammit, you should’ve asked him more about the force. An angry welt formed on your heart remembering the little smirk he wore every time you did—like you were some innocent little thing asking about magic. He never seemed to consider that you could wield it, too—and that’s the only thing that explained everything, wasn’t it? The dreams, the interconnectedness between you. It had to be.

You stared at the sculpture with all your might, trying to remember the bits and pieces he _had_ told you.

“To channel the force, you have to draw upon your thoughts or your memories. If you’re a light side user, typically you think about something happy, full of joy, and channel the emotion from that. With the dark side, you work with a fuller range of emotion—passion, anger—” he’d waved his hands, as thought that explained the rest. “You draw on those energies to do your bidding, instead.”

“But how does that even work,” you’d asked, pushing your luck, snuggled up in the crook of his arm. “You just think something into happening?”

“Well,” he’d frowned. “No. It’s hard to describe. You just… have to want it more than anything, if that makes sense.”

“No.”

You’d been grinding your teeth at the memory, you realized with a flinch. Just the thought filled you with self-righteous mirth; he’d never imagined, all this time, that anyone but him could be special. No, he—

Wait. This was what he was talking about, wasn’t it? Channeling strong emotion from a memory—

You stared with newfound resolve at the relic, willing it to spill its secrets. You wanted—no, needed—that energy to come closer to you, to whisper its knowledge into your ear. You needed answers. You’d been patient.

The deformed object shivered for a few seconds, vibrating in place on the table, before hovering an inch over its original place.

You suppressed a gasp—second-guessing yourself was the last thing you needed to do—and narrowed your eyes, intent on continuing to channel your will. The anger and despair Ren had caused slowly left your being, simmering instead in the void and, somehow, drawing the relic nearer to you.

It was the only thing in the world that was clear to you—your desire to prove this to yourself: that you could do this, wield the force, that he’d been _wrong_. The intoxicating sense of power pounded through your veins, jostling the object a little higher in the air, drawing it a little nearer. It was almost to you, almost in your outstretched hands, when the blaster door opened.

Your concentration shattered and, a moment later, the sight of Kylo Ren sent your confidence plummeting to the floor. You watched, mouth open in a half-shocked gape, as the object tumbled with it. Your lips remained open in a silent scream of terror, watching the relic break into several large pieces against the metal floor.

The man—who’d stepped through the threshold with routine confidence—came to a rare standstill. His chest rose and fell in increasing frequency, his breath beginning to sound louder and louder through the garbled static of his vocoder. His right hand curled, gloved, around the stems of flowers. Bright red and pinks met your eyes, dropping your jaw further than you knew it could go. Sachi blossoms in full bloom were wrapped in a waxy paper and secured with a colored twine, waiting obediently in the hands of their master. They were native to Chandrila, just as he was.

Your eyes clouded with tears—first at the gesture, then at the realization that it was ruined. The blossoms wilted in his hand, drooped, and fell to the floor. He advanced on you, then, and you took an instinctive step back.

“I didn’t mean—” you pleaded with wide doe eyes, holding your hands in front of you for what little protection you could muster. You didn’t know how much he had seen, but you imagined that, from his vantage point, it’d looked rather like you’d tossed a prize possession to the ground.

The words were cut off sooner than they could leave your throat. An invisible vise closed around it instead, choking the life out of you. You reached up to claw at your neck, pleading silently with the cold, metal helmet that stared back at you. There was no mercy to be had here; this was Kylo Ren, Commander of the First Order—not the human man you’d shared a bed with.

The red ignition of his lightsaber registered only vaguely, the blackness of the void having already closed on in your peripheral. You’d collapsed to the ground, trembling in a heap of terror against the foot of the bed. White-hot sweat beaded on your brow, soaking your body in a sickly-cold feeling the moment it lingered for too long on your skin. Your stomach churned, the nausea you’d been feeling spilling over into a very real urge. He raised the lightsaber over his head; you raised your right arm, bracing for death.

Time stretched into slow motion, the sound of your own breath the only sound in your ears. This is what you’d begged for so many times: death. Here he was, about to give it to you. And yet, only one thing bubbled to the forefront of your mind: no. You didn’t want to die.

“Please,” you whispered, closing your eyes. He would ignore you, you knew it; you could feel the cataclysmic rage boiling off him, filling the room with an unbreathable thickness. There was no way he would spare you—not now.

 

* * *

 

The Supreme Leader had been right: the girl was a distraction. Nevermind how he couldn’t bring himself to kill the pathetic sobbing mass at his feet, however much she deserved it—however much his life would be simpler that way. No, instead he’d had her hauled away, thrown into a cell until he could think about her fate with a clearer head.

No, instead he’d ordered his rooms purged of her. He’d watched, statuesque, as terrified sanitation workers scrubbed the tiles of the bathroom clean of the lighter, flowery scents of her shampoo; watched quietly as the frilly, cotton, many-coloured underthings that clashed so much with his own were emptied from their drawer, leaving only tones of black, white, and grey behind; watched as his carpet was cleaned, removing the wet spot left behind at the foot of the bed—the mark of a frightened, cornered animal; watched as the fridge and counters were emptied, as they’d been before her, and Bear…taken somewhere else.

All of it: every reminder of her, every small comfort she'd brought to him, every little thing she'd enjoyed—removed. 

Only then, when he was alone, did he kneel to examine the remnants of his grandfather’s mask.

He’d lost several things, really. First, the illusion that he knew better than Leader Snoke. He thought he could keep the girl, take care of her, be a little less lonely. He’d been wrong—and Snoke had warned him. Snoke was right: he was a child in a mask. He shivered bitterly at the thought, picking up the first fragment of the withered helmet.

Most obviously, he’d lost a connection to his grandfather—a voice that kept him tethered to the dark side, to the mission he’d given everything over to. In a strange way, it sated also the recurring desire he felt for his family. His mother, his father—no, he didn’t hate them. Not really. If anything, he pitied them: they hadn’t seen the truth like he had. Hearing the ancient force-whispers of his grandfather had, in a strange way, filled the hunger he felt for home.

And then, there was the girl. He flinched, tearing off his helmet to take a full breath of the cleaning-product-tinged air. His stomach twisted; it hurt to think about her. He was foolish; he’d grown fond of her. He had looked forward to coming ‘home’ to her, to cuddling her, to watching her go to sleep at night. He picked up the second large piece of the shattered helmet.

Maybe, if he’d been kinder the night before, she wouldn’t have done this. He blanched at the thought, then shoved it violently out-of-mind. No; he’d been wrong—he never should have gone down this path in the first place. He would always be alone. Nothing could bring him peace.

Not even her.

_Peace is a lie, there is only passion._

_Through passion, I gain strength._

_Through strength, I gain power._

_Through power, I gain victory._

_Through victory, my chains are broken._

_The Force shall free me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was never going to be a happy ending.


End file.
